


Rewrite

by nightmare_kisser



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-30
Updated: 2012-04-30
Packaged: 2017-11-04 14:10:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 122,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmare_kisser/pseuds/nightmare_kisser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A web of time-travel, do-overs, romance, friendship, humor, angst, and death after death to bring Dave to new chances and new life, because all he wants is Kurt, to set things right, and undo his regrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_It's strange,_

_The broken thoughts that come to mind_

_When you realize that you're about to die._

_It makes you wonder_

_What you would do differently_

_If you had_

_The chance._

_As I'm trapped in here_

_Trying to hold my breath from the water rushing in_

_\- The automatic locks my downfall; since the doors won't open and the button won't let me roll the windows down, because all of the power is off -_

_And I'm still a little drunk, even if my head cleared some_

_The second the car hit the water on the other side of the bridge._

_I'm trying to remember things,_

_My life a fuzzy blur racing across my head._

_My name, David Karofsky._

_My age, twenty-three._

_My occupation, a Lima loser who works in construction because I dropped out of college._

_My sexual orientation…_

_Homosexual. And everyone in this town knows it._

_My regrets?_

_With my life dwindling, I guess regrets are all I have, all I can think of._

_I regret not coming out sooner; to my parents, at the very least._

_I regret being a bully in high school._

_I regret never seeing Kurt Hummel again before I died like this,_

_A stupid drunk who decided he was "sober" enough to drive – stubborn, like I've always been – and is now sinking to the bottom of a river in a fucking boring midwestern state._

_So I guess I regret that, too._

_But I also regret the little things,_

_Like not telling my parents often enough that I love them,_

_Or doing all those things to Kurt to make him leave school –_

_Instead of telling him that I actually had a huge crush on him, and that he, as a person, helped me choose to come out to my parents later on –_

_And just…_

_Everything._

_I regret most of my life, from about high school and onward._

_If I could do it over again, I would._

_I would…_

And that's where my thoughts stopped, the last of my breath drained from me with a burst of bubbles as I choked on the water surrounding my sinking vehicle and me. The blackness came, and soon, it was all I knew, all I felt, all I saw:

Black, black, _black._ Cold and fluid clinging to me like tar.

.o0o.

I wake to the sound of my alarm going off. But hold on, that alarm sounds wrong; where is the familiar continuous buzzing I'm used to waking up to each morning before I go to work on my current building project?

I open my eyes, groaning at the light coming in through a window that's on the wrong side of the room, and I shut off the intervals of bleeping. I sit up and yawn loudly.

I rub my face – and hey, how come it feels a little chubbier than usual?

I blink my crusty eyes clean – and whoa, why is my bedroom so messy?

I know I have a hangover. I was at a bar last night; I remember that much. Did I fall asleep at a friend's house? Plenty of my bachelor friends have messy rooms like this.

But wait a second… this room is familiar. I know this room.

Panic rising in my chest, I fling off the covers and race to the mirror I know should be on the back of the door. Sure enough, it's there, and the second I see my reflection, I release a shout of surprise.

"What the FUCK?"

"Sweetie? Is everything okay up there?" comes my mom's voice, and she hasn't called me 'sweetie' since before I nearly got expelled in my junior year. I was able to get out of my expulsion, but she was so disappointed in me then that she stopped calling me 'sweetie.'

This is so weird. And wrong. Impossible and – and why can't I remember anything besides the bar?

Too many thoughts cloud my head, and I stumble, leaning against the doorway. "E-everything's fine, Ma!" I holler back, hoping my voice doesn't sound half as shaky and unsure to her as it does to me.

I'm twenty-three. I know this. I _feel_ it, and remember everything throughout and during college, and all of the years after I dropped out of said college. And yet I _know_ this isn't a dream, because I can feel everything far too clearly, and my pounding hangover is evident, but…

I'm back in my sixteen-going-on-seventeen year old body. I'm _back in time._ It's the only explanation. It seems impossible, but it's the sole possibility that would make sense.

Why? How? Who sent me back? God, or something? Am I getting a second chance or whatever? Is this some sort of… _It's A Wonderful Life_ or _Seventeen Again_ prank? Is there an angel I need to talk to, some guide I need to meet? Just _what the fuck_ is _this?_

This is just too trippy to be real. And yet it _is_ real. I know so. I can feel my cat's fur – the same cat that I know died when I turned nineteen – wrapping around my calf as she rubs against my leg. And I can hear my mom pacing around the kitchen downstairs, and I can hear my dad shuffling through the news channels on the TV in the other room. I can smell freshly brewed coffee wafting from where my mom busies herself.

Details that no dream can ever reproduce so crisply, and without distortion. So this must be real. And I _know_ it can't work the other way around, either; an entire series of years lived through and dreamt? I think not. I know how old I am, and how old this body is.

So, logic and magic and whatever else aside, I wander downstairs after I get dressed and ask my mom what the date is.

"Oh David, you lose track of time so easily. Here," she says, smiling and dropping today's paper onto the counter beside me.

My eyes widen at the date. I know today. How could I ever forget this day? Today is a day I kept in my head for years afterward.

Today's the day I kissed Kurt Hummel for the first and final time.

I feel dizzy, my head swimming, and I sway on my feet.

"David? Sweetie, are you feeling all right?" my mom asks me softly, concern laced in her tone.

I shake my head. No, no, I'm nowhere near 'all right.' But how can I say that? She doesn't know that I skipped time and landed right back in my younger body. She doesn't know who I am, or where I've been, or how I feel inside. So I force a smile and tell her, "I'm fine. I'm going to go to school early, okay?"

She looks concerned still, but nods her head. "Yeah, okay. Do you want something to take with you to eat along the way?"

"No, it's fine. I just have something I need to do," I mutter, and soon I'm flying out the door.

.o0o.

At school, everything is so surreal. I go through the day knowing what everyone is going to say and do in that déjà vu way before they even come near me. They send me puzzled looks, and the teachers are shocked when I know the answers from some subconscious memory as they ask questions to the class, hand out quizzes, and notice my sudden change of attitude from the me they probably knew only a day before.

I can't stand it. It makes me sick to my stomach to be here, doing this all over again.

And when I see Kurt, I make sure not to touch him. Not a shove, not a brush, nothing. I shudder and turn the other way, walking away.

But when I see him smiling at his phone precisely like the first time (or… not, since this _is_ the first time, now, since no one else has changed bodies with their younger selves like I have), something in me snaps. I… I can't just leave him be like that. I still don't know why he's smiling at that tiny screen – a good text he got, maybe? I dunno – but it pisses me off that I've been such a coward all day when it came to him. So I do it again. I knock it out of his hands. I push his shoulder. But he doesn't hit the lockers this time, and this time, I don't look back.

I know he's going to follow me anyway.

"What is your problem?" he hisses instead of screams as he bursts into the empty locker room.

I stiffen, my shoulders growing tense as I turn to face him. I don't want to insult him like in my memory. Instead, I ask simply, "Excuse me?"

"What are you so scared of?" he bristles, and my stomach flutters as I look at his lightly flushed face, and his little balled-up fists, and the way his shirt hangs on his torso.

It's such a shock to see him again that I'm not sure how to respond at first. I remember my original response ("'Sides you sneakin' in here to peek at my junk?"), but saying that wouldn't feel right. That isn't me, who I am inside this cage of a younger body. And Kurt… I forgot how stunning he was. Is. And how close he's getting is making me heady, nearly making my hangover (or is that feeling instead the lag from time-traveling? I don't know) spike back up into the dangerous, migraine-type levels.

"'M scared of a lot of things," I retort with a grunt. I turn back to my locker and try to remember the combination. I can't. I only went in here because it's what I remember doing, but I can't, for the life of me, even begin to pretend I have a purpose being in here.

"Oh yeah? Mind sharing them with me? Because I would just _love_ to throw them back in your face, just so you can experience all of the fear that runs through me every single time you or one of your goonies comes within the immediate vicinity!" Kurt roars, and his big gay-rights-sort of rant is on its way, I just know it. "All you homophobic straight guys are alike! You have this nightmarish fear that all us gays are out to molest or convert you! Well, you know what? We're not. Especially not _me._ I wouldn't touch you with a ten-foot pole!"

"That right?" I retort, my insides burning for dual reasons; the first being because, even after all these years, I guess I still have feelings for him. And the second being because, well. There he goes again, reminding me how unattractive I am in his eyes, despite how fuckin' appealing I think he is. "Lemme guess: you think I'm not your type. Right?" I say, my eyebrows lifting on the last word, offense and hurt disguised behind clenched teeth and what I hope sounds like anger.

"Right. I don't dig on –"

"Chubby boys who sweat too much and are going to be bald by the time they're thirty?" I finish for him. He started saying the first few words with me – 'chubby boys who' – but stopped with this shocked look on his face as soon as I stole the exact words from his mouth. "Yeah, I know. You'd rather have pretty boys from boarding schools, or tall, lean jocks like Hudson, or, I dunno, another little twink like you. I get the _message,_ Hummel," I snort, and I feel sick inside. Sick with all sorts of emotions I don't want to have to deal with.

"How did you –" he begins, but cuts himself off with a sharp scoffing sound. "You know what? I don't even _care._ Just stay away from me, would you? Quit your bullying, because I know deep down you're just a cowardly boy who can't handle how extraordinarily ordinary you are." He spits this out instead of yells it in my face, and he's close again, just like I remember, but his words are a little different.

But not too different. I can't stand that last bit. Like last time, it's too much. He doesn't know how true it is, and it fucking hurts like hell to hear. How ordinary I am… a construction worker. A Lima loser. A college dropout. He was right all along, and it burns me with this aching anger when I realize it.

So I do it again. I launch myself forward within milliseconds of 'are' and clamp my hands down over the sides of his face, the pulse in his throat under my palms, felt in my fingertips where they rest at the base of his head. I feel him freeze up, and this time, I make the kiss less rushed and heated, but just as passionate, my lips speaking for me. As I pull away, I keep my eyes screwed shut as I press my forehead to his. I can tell that he's barely breathing, and as I hear his mouth fall open, I breathe, "I'm sorry."

And then I bolt from the locker room, the same sniffle escaping me as last time, except for another reason entirely.

Boy, did I fuck up again. I wonder what the repercussions will be this time?

.o0o.

They approach me on the stairs the following day. It's the same, but the air is… different. That prep school guy – I never did learn his name – comes up to me and blocks my path. "Pardon me, but may Kurt and I have a word with you? In private?"

Well, at least they're going about this in a better manner. Instead of trying to out me in public like the first time, they're instead being nice and polite about this. Probably because I told Kurt two words I've been dying to say to him since –

Dying. _Dying._ Now I remember: I was dying. I was _dead._ But then I woke up, and I was in this body again.

Shaking it off with a roll of my shoulders, I nod stiffly. "Whatever. Where?"

"The choir room is empty," Kurt pipes up in that quiet voice of his.

"Then let's go, Lady Boys. I ain't got all day," I snort, and bump past the uniform clad one and am very careful not to touch Kurt again. I know where the choir room is, and head there without glancing back to see if I'm being followed by the pair. I can hear them, though; their expensive shoes on the cement and tile, their whispers to one another. Kurt sounds nervous with each rise and fall of his voice, and Pretty Boy sounds reassuring with the smooth tones of his own voice.

When we're in the choir room, Kurt shuts the doors, and the prep takes a seat, offering one to me that's place in front of him. Kurt takes the seat beside him. I spin the chair around and straddle it, resting my forearms on the back as I give them a brief nod.

"So what's this all about?" I say, but I know full well what it's about.

"You kissed me," Kurt blurts, just as embarrassed as I remember, but thank God we're alone this time.

Beside him, his friend nods. "Ahem," he clears his throat, "Yes, that is the reason why we wanted to speak to you, David. May I call you David? Kurt tells me your name is Dave Karofsky, so I figured a respectful name for you would be –"

"I don't want to get chummy with you, pal. I don't even know who the fuck you are," I remind him with a sneer.

"Oh. I'm terribly sorry, where are my manners? I'm Blaine. I'm a friend of Kurt's. Although as you can probably tell, I don't go to school here."

"I'm not dumb," I retort. "I know you're wearing a Dalton uniform. One of my cousins goes there. Now, what do you two _want_ from me?"

"Just a talk," Blaine answers simply, a plastic smile taking over his features. I don't trust this guy. He seems so… superficial. Condescending. Totally Kurt's type. And it makes me a little more than pissed off, and definitely jealous, even though I feel a bit strange being twenty-three in mind, even if I'm their age in body. Or maybe I'm younger; than this Blaine guy, at least. He acts like a senior.

Anyway, Blaine's trying to give the same speech I remember, something about me not having to feel alone – humph, this guy's gay, too, then – and how coming to terms with myself is naturally frightening, and yadda yadda yadda.

I roll my eyes. " _Look,_ " I tell both of them, "I don't need your pity, or help, or whatever the fuck you think you're doing that might be 'good' for me. I have it all figured out, okay? I told my mom last night that I kissed Kurt, that I like boys, and all that shit. She freaked out at first, but after I reminded her that I'm still the same person and all I did was stop lying to her, she took it pretty well and even decided to tell my dad for me. Still dunno his reaction, but I don't care. I know he'll still love me. It –" I'm about to say that it worked last time, but I'd just sound crazy if I let them know the truth about how I knew to come out to my parents this soon. Instead, I shrug and inform them, "But I ain't comin' out to the school. You can forget _that._ Az would be a huge asshole about it, and no one on the hockey team would talk to me again, and high school just sucks when you're gay. So I'll hold out 'til college, thanks."

Blaine looks taken aback, and Kurt is just _staring_ at me, kind of in a gaping way, not too unlike how he had in Sylvester's office when she was principal the first time around.

"Well then," Blaine says with an amused quirk on his lips and with raised triangular brows. "I don't even know why I bothered, then! You seem to have things under wraps better than I thought a jocky closet case such as yourself could have. Kudos, David." He looks over at Kurt, gently nudging his forearm with his elbow. "Would you like to add something?"

Kurt stands, suddenly pink-faced, and I casually pan my eyes over to lock gazes with him. "You…!" he sputters, and I'm not sure what he's about to say. It could go anywhere at this point. With what must be a blush of shame, he snaps at me, "You stole my first kiss, and you're just flippantly brushing it off like it's no big _deal?_ You were such an asshole, and yet you seem to think that everything's peachy? Just what the hell sort of person _are_ you, Karofsky?"

I stand suddenly, frowning at him slightly. Between us, Blaine looks on with interest, probably waiting to see if we can work this out on our own, and if not, waiting to intervene. I bark back, "I know what I'm doing, okay? I learned a lot recently, and I know that it's tiring to lie to my parents anymore, but that I literally can't take being harassed at school. I'm not like you, okay? I'm not half as courageous or strong-willed or confident in myself. So lay off, will ya? I'm doing things _my_ way."

"Then why did you kiss me?" Kurt hisses, leaning in to stab a finger in the air between our chests. "Because I'm an easy target? Because I'm the only out gay? Or is it because, in your deranged mind, it was your way of apologizing or coming out to me or something?"

"Maybe," I huff, crossing my arms over my chest. "Or _maybe_ it's none of those. Could be because I thought you'd understand, or I wanted to shut you up, but maybe it's just because I _like_ you, Fancy."

"You what…?" he says with a gasp, reeling backward.

Blaine grins suddenly. "My, what a turn of events this has taken!"

I grunt something incoherent and turn and storm out of the room. I don't need this right now. This is my new shot at life or whatever and I just keep screwing it up with each and every passing moment. It's as though part of me still feels like this is an illusion and I'll wake up for real and realize that I'm dead and in purgatory or Hell or wherever homos are sent after they die.

I kind of hope for this, though. Because if this isn't any of that, then I truly am screwing up my second chance pretty thoroughly.

.o0o.

The next day, Kurt comes and sits down at my lunch table, right in front of my friends. They start tossing rude remarks – ones involving my current least favorite f-word, the ever-popular slur for homos – and I immediately shut them up and remove myself from the table, gesturing for Kurt to follow.

I take my tray and dump its contents in the trash. After ditching the tray in a pile of others on a cart, I turn and shove my hands in my pockets. "Go eat your lunch. I'll be 'round. I'm sure your smart mouth has something to say that won't go unheard by me for long, so hurry up and then let's get this over with."

He makes a face at me – one I can't read and don't recognize – and nods. He saunters off, rejoins his friends, and finishes his meal all while glancing back at me to make sure I haven't gone, and probably to say something about me to them, too. I bet they all know I'm gay. Kurt kept the secret out of fear last time, but now? There's nothing to fear. I haven't hurt him since I time-jumped. I haven't given him a reason to fear me, and because of that, no reason to keep the secret.

When Kurt comes back, there's this odd smile barely reaching the corners of his mouth. "Library?" he says, and I shrug, following him out of the cafeteria and down the hallway. After a long silence, and once we're hidden by some bookshelves from the librarian and the single kid in the entire room who's on a computer, Kurt whispers, "Did… did you mean what you said yesterday?"

"What, that I liked you?" I retort nonchalantly. My heart is racing in my chest, though, despite the tone. "Yeah. Wouldn't'na said it if it weren't the truth. Sorry 'bout being such a dick to you, but it was my twisted way of showing my feelings without _showing my feelings,_ know what I mean?"

He shakes his head. "A little. But you know, elementary flirting really is stupid. I can understand why you couldn't say it directly, but… ever heard of anonymous flowers?"

"Not my thing," I answer with an irritated lick at my lips. I glance at the multi-colored carpet pounded flat by years of book-searching feet wearing on its surface. I rake my nails down its haphazard coloring pattern while admitting, "But you're right, I could've done things differently. So I'm trying that now. I already said I was sorry and told you how I felt, right? That's something."

"I suppose so, but… you can't expect me to return your feelings, Karofsky. After all, you –"

"Have been your bully for years. Yeah, I get that. Like I said to your pal Blaine, I'm not stupid. I know you hate my guts, and that we're too different, and I'm not your type, and all that. I don't want anything from you, Hummel. I kissed you, yeah, in one of those impulsive moments, but it won't happen again, okay? I'm not gonna force you to like me or anything. Have I tried anything since that kiss? No. So leave me alone and I'll leave you alone," I tell him, and that's that. I'm done here. I get up from the floor and start pacing down the aisle, back to the library entrance.

However, I hear Fancy scrambling to his feet behind me, muttering a sharp, "Wait!" still in a whisper.

He grabs me by the arm once I'm in the hallway; most kids are still in lunch or another class, so it's empty. "What happened to you? It's like you kiss me and suddenly you're… a different person."

"I guess. So what?" I grumble, not able to look him in the eyes when he's _touching_ me like that.

"It's… a nice change, that's all. And while I still dislike you, I don't _hate_ you any longer. And you and I could be friends eventually, I think. Us gays got to stick together, right?" Kurt smirks, and I swear I either want to slap him or kiss him again.

I laugh with a tinge of bitterness. "Us? _Friends_? Fancy, you _know_ that's not possible. We're born to argue with each other. Which, come to think of it, is another reason why I know we wouldn't work out romantically, no matter how much I like you. So no, man; this gay ain't stickin' to nobody. I'm just going to get through high school and try to actually _stay_ in college and then move away somewhere to get a decent job that's anything but construction." He doesn't understand, I can tell by the puzzle expression on his face, but I hadn't expected him to. It's just something for myself, a brief reminder of how I can change things. I think that's what I was meant to do: correct my mistakes, and undo my regrets. I already fixed some of them, anyhow.

He drops his hands from my arm, permitting me to lower it to hang limply at my side. I ignore how cold it feels without the warmth of his fingers around my wrist.

"You haven't worn your letterman since you kissed me."

"And? Your point?" I say as I try to start walking again. He's trailing after me like a lost puppy with only one person vaguely known enough to him to hang on to.

"My _point_ being that that's a sign. You don't want to hide behind your jocky exterior any longer."

"Ha, that's funny. You're funny, Hummel," I snort in reply. "But that isn't true. There are a ton of days when I don't wear my letterman jacket. Today and yesterday just happen to be two of them."

"Oh," he says, probably trying to remember other days that I haven't worn the blasted thing. "Well," he murmurs, "That still means something."

"Not really. You read too much into things," I mutter. But being analytical comes with being dramatic, and Hummel is definitely a drama queen.

He frowns at that as I glance at him, where he's trotting a little to keep up with my long strides, even though his own legs are nearly as long as mine. "Karofsky," he tries again as the bell suddenly sounds in the hallway, "I'm not going to give up on you. Maybe I'm just being stubborn, and you could be a hopeless case, but I want to try to figure you out."

"Why would you even wanna bother?" I scoff, stopping mid-step to turn and face him, a frown on my brows and a puzzled shape to my lips.

Kurt nearly runs into me, but stops himself just in time to avoid actual contact. He takes a step back to lessen the heart-flutter-inducing closeness between us, and thank _God,_ because having him so close drives me nuts in that impulsive-urges way.

"I want to bother because, aside from Blaine, you're the only…" he pauses, glancing around at the number of people suddenly around us, and improvises with a clearing of his throat to indicate what he means. "That I know. And you're in desperate need of a makeover; no, don't look at me like that; I wasn't referring to your appearance this time. I meant your insides. And I think I can help with that almost as much as I can with my usual makeovers. So please, Karofsky: let me befriend you. I can be a good influence on you. And… and you do kind of owe me for what you stole."

"But I haven't taken the –" and I cut myself off. Of course he doesn't mean the cake topper. I took that what would be a couple weeks from now, around the time Hudson and Kurt's parents get married. I realize that, in place of something tangible, he means his first kiss. I wince. "Yeah, okay. I do kinda owe you for that, since that's something I can't really give back. But if it's any consolation, that was a first for me, too."

"I figured it was," he whispers, looking oddly sincere. He shakes his head, a blushing rising again. "So it's settled, then?" he says, gripping his bag and edging near a classroom; his next period, I assume. Shit, I'm going to be late for mine. It's halfway across the school, and I only have about a minute and a half to get there.

"What is?" I ask vaguely, avoiding his fucking gorgeous eyes again.

"That you and I are going to be seeing more of each other, and with a lot less violence," he informs me. "Not friends, but acquaintances."

"Sure, whatever," I agree, trying not to reveal how much I like that idea. We can never be together in the way I wish for – him telling me he loves me, him writhing beneath me as I pleasure him, him walking hand-in-hand with me as we attend the same college – but I guess I could do that. Be semi-friends. Confidants at the least, since I honestly do need someone to talk to about when it comes to being homosexual. I never really got a chance to explore it even at age twenty-three, my knowledge limited to movies, TV, and online porn.

"Fantastic," Kurt grins, and then he's sidestepping into a classroom nearby. Sighing, I turn and head to my next class, still waiting on the office to either give me my locker information; they don't like students breaking into other lockers, pretending it's their own, so it takes a while to confirm that I'm telling the truth. So I have no real supplies except for what was in the car (my backpack with half of my classes' stuff in it, leftover from whatever homework I had before I body-switched with myself).

And I'm beginning to wonder if what I'm doing is right. Getting my grades back up, conversing with Kurt, and all that stuff. Is it what I'm meant to do? How can I know if I'm on the right path for the rewrite of my personal history?


	2. Chapter 2

_It's funny,_

_The scattered, random thoughts_

_That drift into your mind_

_When you're caught between the Dream Realm and Reality,_

_Sitting on the fence, teetering, tottering, not quite conscious yet_

_But conscious enough to think a little,_

_The thoughts, in retrospect, ones that make not a scrap of sense_

_But somehow seem fine and normal when they float into being._

_I'm there, now,_

_Trying to wake up, trying to remember who I am_

_And what's going on currently in my life_

_As I shake off my dreams._

_I remember dying,_

_I remember my name,_

_I remember Kurt Hummel's face,_

_I remember how easy it was to slip back into my high school routine,_

_I remember little else._

_Only that things move by quickly,_

_And nothing seems to faze me;_

_Not after death,_

_Not after getting a second chance at life,_

_Not after all the pain and bliss I never thought I could experience,_

_And yet here I am,_

_Experiencing it._

My eyes startle open as a loud snort wakes me. Had I been snoring again? Must have. I do that sometimes: wake myself from whatever hazy, sleepy stream of consciousness I was having by snorting awake, cutting my sleep off mid-snore. It's a jarring habit, but whatever. I deal. It's just how I am sometimes, I guess.

Yawning, I have no recollection of what I had been thinking of. I know it was _something,_ but for the life of me, I can't recall. Whatever it was, it must not have been very important.

Idly, I roll out of bed and hop in the shower, humming to myself like I usually do. When I get out, dressed and ready for some breakfast (man, am I hungry), my mom is at the table with a mug of coffee in her hands and one of her fingers playing with the smooth glaze over the handle.

"Good morning, David," she murmurs, and she gives me a waning smile. I frown at her for a moment before shrugging my shoulders and pouring myself a bowl of cereal.

"Morning, Ma," I reply easily. I sit down and start crunching away, almost forgetting how much I love having breakfast without going straight to work.

"David, I've been wondering… you're different lately. Did something… _change_?" she asks, and I swallow hard, blinking as I connect my gaze with hers. Her face is calm, her expression unreadable, and there's a knowing curiosity in her voice.

"Uh," I begin, sitting up straight and setting my spoon in the bowl, "Aside from me telling you the truth?" I say, referring to my sexuality.

"Yes, besides that," she remarks with nothing in her tone. I can't tell if there's an edge or not, or if she's about to smile or not. It's a little unnerving, not being able to read my usually-wears-her-heart-on-her-sleeve mother. She clears her throat mildly. "It's just, you seem so very… _matured_ all of a sudden."

I eye her suspiciously. What does she know? Something I don't? "Not really."

"No, I think you are. You're doing your homework, you haven't played any video games – which is strange, because you're usually a junkie – and just yesterday when I asked you how school was, you actually told me what happened that day. Ever since you came out to me, you've been… different. More cooperative, more responsible, and generally more _adult._ So, being the caring mother I am, I wonder if hiding your sexuality from us was holding you back and making you volatile, or… maybe, instead, you've recently _made a huge jump._ "

Okay, this is getting beyond weird. I take my spoon and shove another bite into my mouth. "I don't know what you're talking about, Mom," I say cautiously, because is she insinuating that she knows who I really am? That I'm not high-school-David, but that I'm actually grown-up-David? How would she even begin to guess, or know, or –

"Well, my mistake, then. Sorry if I'm confusing you," she says with a soft smile. She takes a sip of her coffee before standing from her seat to finish getting ready for her job. "Have a nice day at school, sweetie." And then with a pat on my head to muss my hair, she's gone.

I stare after her for a long moment, but then decide to brush it off and finish up breakfast so that I can get to school at a respectable time. I'd hate to ruin the new reputation I seem to be gathering these days: that I'm some sort of reformed bully, someone turned into an average jock-who-isn't-always-a-jerk, and I kinda like it.

.o0o.

"Since we're on somewhat decent terms with one another, may I inquire as to why you harassed the Glee Club for so many years? I understand singling _me_ out, but what about the others?" Kurt approaches me almost immediately when he enters the cafeteria later the same day.

"First my mother's asking weird questions, and now you?" I snort, rolling my eyes a little as I shuffle in the lunch line to get some pizza.

"I don't know what your mother asked, but this isn't a weird question. This is perfectly a reasonable inquiry, seeing as how you're not half the dumb, asshole jock I thought you to be. There's more to you, and since my father constantly likes to remark what a stubborn mule I am, I'm playing it up by getting to the bottom of the endlessly mysterious pit that is you."

"…Was that a fat joke?" I scowl, because I really hate how people reference to my build. I'm a little stocky, I know that, but I'm not _fat._ I don't have a bottomless pit for a stomach, and I don't need Kurt ragging on me about this again.

Kurt rolls his eyes at me, and throws a hand up in the air. "No! Gaga, why do you take everything so personally?"

"Why do you refuse to say 'God' and instead name some freaky chick who sings?" I retort. "And why do you toss in so many words when all you want to say is that you're stubborn and demand answers from me? Seriously, Kurt. Lighten up a little, and at least _try_ to act less high-and-mighty."

He makes this flabbergasted noise before huffing and placing his hands on his slim hips. I pretend that my eyes don't follow the movement before I turn and pay for my food.

"Okay, fine. I'll try to simplify my speaking a little for you, since you seem incapable of understanding anything more. But as for the answers thing? Yeah, it'd be real nice to have some," he remarks as he follows me to my table. My friends send me a look, but know not to say anything this time.

"First of all, tons of jocks pick on Glee kids. It just happens, okay? It's how things are done around here, and I just hopped on the bandwagon because it was easy, and because I didn't want to lose friends or be called a pussy. And secondly, maybe I did have a deeper reason, Hummel. Ever imagined that there are plenty of vocally talented kids in this school, but most of us don't have the balls to show it, so we get jealous and hide behind slushie facial deliveries?" I relay with a little bitterness, but plenty of truth. And the other jocks at the table shift uncomfortably because they _know_ that what I just said is more than any of them would ever have the courage to own up to.

"…Are you telling me that you can sing? And you're jealous that the Glee members and I can perform with the confidence you lack?" he repeats, his face and tone more than surprised.

"Yes, thank you for summing up exactly what I just said," I retort. I send him a glance around a bite of pizza. "Man, do you people need to read some psych books. It totally explains the mentality behind what I just said. I mean, really: why didn't you figure it out?"

"…So… you can sing."

"Yeah, I pretty much implied that I could. What does it matter? And dude, you're seriously grating on my nerves with your pushy bullshit," I say, suddenly feeling embarrassed. Cue my defensive reactions. I don't like the glint in Kurt's eyes; that spark of intrigue over the fact that I can sing. I mean, so what? I'm not half bad, and I know it, but it's not something I want to pursue. And the fact that he keeps insisting all these _things –_ like being 'acquaintances,' and my singing, and following me around – it makes me wonder if he's just looking for attention because he knows I like him, or if he's trying to do the world a favor and reform me or some shit. It's seriously annoying, and sort of attractive, and I really, really hate it. But I'm getting back into the flow of being a teenager again, and if it means dealing with this petty stuff – and if it means getting a chance to be closer to Kurt – then I can deal. But he's got to stop being so forceful. The dude's strong, in a sense, and it kinda freaks me out (but in a good way. Huh. Wonder if this is why Hudson is dating Berry?).

Kurt's feathers ruffle like a bird that got tremendously offended, but he's soon exhaling and shaking his head minutely. "I suppose I have to get used to your lack of tact and your tendency to get pissy when you're flustered."

"Who said I was flustered?" I retort sharply, because all the guys around us started snickering at that. I can feel my face heat up; blushing being something normal and awkward since puberty, but still having memories of being twenty-three makes it feel unnatural on me. Dammit, why does Kurt get to be the one person on this entire fucking planet who can make me react so strongly? Like that whole… kissing thing. I probably could have skipped doing it again, but I just _had_ to, because of _him._

"Easy, Fury," he says with a smirk, noticing the way my hand is curling into a fist. I immediately release it, and return my gaze to my food. I'm not hungry anymore (shocker!), but I bring the slice of pizza to my mouth and take a bite anyway. Meanwhile, the prissy little singer is going on to say, "It just surprised me, that's all. And it's made me understand two things: one, that most jocks are hypocrites. And two, that you're not a bad guy anymore. You're telling me the truth, and often. And if I can tell the truth in return, I can honestly say that these surprises I keep getting from you aren't entirely dismissible; in a good way."

I'm not entirely sure what he means by that – is he saying that he _likes_ the fact that I'm some closet-case queer who can sing and is half in love with him? – so I just shove more pizza into my mouth and ignore the onslaught of remarks coming from the others, things about Kurt flirting with me and how I should do them all a favor and relieve the sexual tension by either making Hummel leave or just molest him already.

"How about the lot of you shut the fuck up? There's no sexual tension, okay? I-I'm not – I mean, why would I ever –?" and I'm red-faced again, and this pizza really isn't sitting right with me, so I just take my tray and dump it, marching directly out of the lunchroom. Thank God Kurt doesn't follow.

But I'm beginning to get the feeling that this second chance at life thing? Yeah, it's not going to be easy. Getting a redo is all great and fine, but this _is_ my life now, which means it's going to be just as fucking difficult as it was the first time around. Which sucks. And I hate it. And while I love correcting a few of my mistakes, resolving some of my regrets…

Maybe it would've been better had I died. Because this, right here? Being in high school again, with the teasing, immature student body and the irritating, droning faculty and all of the complications of raging hormones and conflicting, explosive emotions?

Yeah. Not fun. I almost miss the simple challenges of construction working.

.o0o.

As I'm walking home one evening after about a week of Kurt's pestering me to try out for Glee Club because he thinks it'll bring me full-circle and everyone closer together and can act as therapy or some shit, I come into the house with all this on my mind to find my father holding a bag of ice to his eye.

I freeze in the doorway, tossing down my backpack and striding over to the couch. "Dad, what the hell is this?" I say in regards to his black eye, and as I come closer, the busted lip to go with it.

My mother sighs languidly, angry tears in the corners of her eyes.

"Your father – acting like a fucking _fifteen-year-old_ – got fired from work today when his boss started rambling up a storm about how all homosexuals should 'get AIDs like they deserve and die.' And, knowing that his own _son_ is one of those aforementioned individuals, he got defensive and into an argument that resulted in his boss getting a few good swings in, and your father retaliating. So here we are, currently living on a single income, and your father and his boss are both at home getting nursed by their wives for their arrogant testosterone-fueled rages!" she rants, drilling out each word like a military sergeant.

I blink rapidly a few times, guilt sinking into the pit of my stomach, stilling my heart on its way. "This is my fault. If I hadn't told Mom, then –"

"Are you insane?" my dad says calmly, a smile making its way onto his usually stern face. "That was the most fun I've had in a while. I forgot what it was like, getting into a fistfight over heated words. Felt good; felt like I was a kid again. It also felt good to stand up for my son and all the people in the world who are like him. Because the world is cruel to gays sometimes, I realize. Even I was one of those people, not two weeks ago. But David, I love you, and if taking a few punches and dishing out a few of my own will prove a point and help protect you, then I'll gladly do it. So don't even try blaming yourself, son."

I… I can't form the words. I try, even mentally, but all I want to do is cry. When I came out to my parents years later in what feels like another universe, they weren't this supportive. Maybe it's because they figured I was an adult and I could "make my own choices." Maybe it's because they didn't see how much I struggled. But this time, they actually…

"Thank you," I mutter, and turn and exit the room before I can do something stupid, like bawl in front of them. It's too much, really. Too much. I'm used to simpler things, more distance, and all of that. I'm not accustomed to this, any of this: Kurt, Mom, Dad. All of it is just… a lot to suddenly have thrust upon me in this weird, new version of my life; I've dealt with it for the week and a half or so that it's been happening, but now it all seems so…

I shake my head and press my face further into my pillow; my bed, the little save haven I escaped to. I roll over onto my back and exhale loudly.

I feel… muddled. Happy on one hand, guilty on another, proud in some light, overwhelmed in the shadows. It's like a mixture of awesome and horrible at the same time, and I can't wrap my mind around it.

I almost want to ask, "Is this real life?" in a childish voice, partially to quote a certain post-trip-to-the-dentist child on YouTube, and partially because that's really what I'm thinking right now.

So I just smile, shake my head, and rise from my bed, keen on getting my homework done.

.o0o.

I crack my knuckles anxiously, then run my hands through my hair, then shove them into my pockets. Why did I decide to do this, again? How is this supposed to help me revise my regrets?

Oh, right. Because being in Glee Club looks good on a college application, and I need to get into a relatively nice college in order to get an acceptable degree and get a better, higher-paying job than fucking _construction._ Right…

That doesn't make me any less retarded-feeling, or any less insecure-feeling, or any less foolish-feeling. I don't belong here. I'm just this… lumbering lumphead standing awkwardly in the center of the room, by the piano guy (what's his name? Brian or Brad or something else with a B?), my tongue flicking out now and then to wet my dry, nervous lips, and help lube my mouth for all the singing I'm going to have to do in a few minutes.

"Okay, Dave. So you're going to be auditioning for Glee for us?" the Spanish teacher – I forget his name, too – asks to clarify.

I try not to look like I'm shaking as I reply indignantly, "Yeah, I am. Kurt goaded me into joining, so here I am. Dunno why it matters, 'cept that it'll look good on my college app."

The teacher makes a face, like he wishes I had a different, more personal reason, but shrugs and gestures to the band to start playing the song I chose. "Well then, by all means, show us what you got!" he says encouragingly.

I inwardly wince. I don't like this. I don't want to be here. But dammit, if I can change in front of other guys and act straight, and if I can play hockey and football with a bunch of people watching me, I can sure as hell sing in front of about a dozen geeks plus some band members and a random teacher. It shouldn't be that complicated. Or nearly this nerve wrecking.

I open my mouth when the music rounds the corner into the section where the lyrics begin, and I start belting out a slower, more acoustic version of 'Broken Man' by Boys Like Girls. It was either that, or 'Learning to Fall.' I feel like some of the lyrics some of the time, I guess. Most songs are like that, and it's kind of a sissy band for a guy like me to listen to.

…Wait. Maybe not. Gay and all that. Damn.

Anyway, this is all I'm thinking of as I sing what I hope is on-key, and try my best not to look at the faces in the chairs in front of me; not at Kurt especially. But fuck, how can I not glance his way a few times, especially during a few of the lyrics I could practically sing to him, they apply so heavily? And yeah, I'm not gonna lie: one of the best perks about this do-over thing is being around him every day again. I fucking love it, and I wonder vaguely if it's unhealthy to have kept a piece of my crush on him up through the twenty-third year of my life. Hmm.

As I finish up the song, I realize something that snaps me out of my singing daze: Kurt isn't afraid of me anymore. Which means he won't go to Dalton. And he has Blaine (who I'm beginning to call 'Bland' in my head) as a friend, but maybe, if I try hard enough… I can remove Blaine as a romantic interest.

Ginning to myself, I nod once in the Glee Club teacher's direction before taking a seat, a little surprised to hear clapping. I earned their applause, without too long of an awkward silence proceeding it? Either they're surprised in a pleasant way, or I can actually sing better than I thought. Huh.

"That was… surprisingly amazing, Karofsky," Kurt murmurs to me from across Hudson, who nods in agreement.

"Yeah, man! I had no idea you could sing like that. Why'd you hold it in?" Hudson asks, and he sends me one of those smiles that makes all the girls swoon.

I roll my eyes at the pair of them. "'Cause it's stupid. Singing will get me nowhere. I'm not that kind of sing and dance guy you'll ever see, like, bustin' out on TV."

"You never know," Kurt says with a smirk, and redirects his attention to what the teacher has to say.

I make a soft scoffing noise. This is unreal. But… I'd be lying if I said I wasn't totally loving it deep down inside.

.o0o.

"Hey Mom," I greet as I come home from my first official rehearsal for Glee Club.

Sectionals are coming up, so Shuester is cracking down on the practices. And he even gave Kurt a solo, something from a musical I've never seen, but know he will sing beautifully, because, well… Kurt has a really fucking gorgeous singing voice. Like his really fucking gorgeous _everything else._ Including his personality, I've found; just hanging around him, seeing how he interacts with people and how he behaves when he isn't acting bitchy… Hn. Let's just say I'm kind of more than half in love with him now.

I pause in my thoughts, glancing around the house. "…Mom? Hey, Ma, where are ya?"

I thought I saw her car in the driveway. So she's home, right? But there's no response.

"Ma? MOM!" I call out, racing around the house, looking for a sign of life anywhere.

Nothing.

But as I shakily enter my bedroom and drop my bookbag, I find a note taped to my door.

_David,_

_Had to go with your father to the police station. Someone defaced the garage, as you probably noticed. I'm so sorry, sweetie; we try to protect you, but not everything goes according to plan._

_Love,  
_ _Mom._

…The garage? I honestly hadn't seen anything. I came in from around back, only saw my mother's car in the driveway from a side-view. But… the garage, defaced? Don't tell me that means –

I duck out of my room and try not to walk as slow as I feel with my suddenly heavy legs and enter the garage through the subbasement. Sure enough, the place is wrecked. On both sides of the dented, half-ajar opening in front, there is red and black spray paint all over, even on the floor, and everything is either broken or tipped over. Ransacked without looking for anything.

The messy, ugly, offensive scrawl everywhere is unmistakable. "Faggot. Fag. Your son is queer. You're going to Hell, homo! Thanks for no telling us, pussy! Now you gotta pay. Pay, pay, pay; fag, fag, fag."

A burning, all-consuming rage rises up inside of me. Who told? Who heard? Who did this? I have a clue. 'Thanks for not telling us.' Could be any of the jocks I once called 'comrade.' Any of them; the puckheads, the footballers. Any of them. Azimio… I bet he was one of them. He spray painted 'fucking queer-face' on my car when I first came out during college, before this time-skip restart thing happened. But the others? Who knows. I sure don't. And if I ever found out, I would just beat them all bloody and go to juvie. Not cool.

Seething, I run back inside and dig my cell out of my backpack. I dial Az's number, wait for him to pick up, and when he does, I don't even think twice before shouting, "WHO FUCKING TOLD YOU, ASSHOLE?"

He laughs in my ear. "Dude, you can't say you didn't see it coming. I mean, joining that faggy Glee Club? Hanging out with Hummel? Not beatin' nobody any more, or givin' any more slushies to their faces? It wasn't hard to figure out. That, and I heard how your dad got into a fight with his boss a while back. Now, why would your dad – someone I _know_ ain't a homo-lover – suddenly start defending the shit being talked 'bout by one of his co-workers? And that's when I got it, Karofsky: I got that you were as gay as a fuckin' rainbow. Shouldda stayed hidden, bro. Now we're after you like we were Hummel, but worse. Him? He can't help be who he is. He was born like that, I bet. But you? Dude, you were fuckin' converted. People as normal as you – that don't just fuckin' happen. You were brainwashed, man. You chose this."

"I didn't fuckin' choose _anything!"_ I scream at him. I grind my teeth as I hurl back, " _All_ gays are born this way, numb nuts! D'ya think I would have chosen this if I could? Fuck no! That's why I 'hid' for so long! But you know what? I don't fuckin' care. I'll hash it out with any of you bastards, and as we speak, _Az,_ my mom and dad decided to report your vandalism. How's _that_ feel, fuck-face? No one messes with a Karofsky's property, and now your ass is gonna get _owned._ "

I don't give him time to form a rebuttal. I hang up and delete him from my contacts list. The only friends I have now are the people I used to harass, ironically. And ain't it just the loveliest thing in the world, how royally fucked up I'm making my so-called second chance? I bet whatever higher power gave me this gift is frowning down upon me right now.

Well, fuck you, higher power! I never asked for this. I never asked to be victimized, even if it's maybe something I needed, a lesson or whatever, since I always was the one making victims. But you know what? I'm no victim. I play the self-pity card like everyone else sometimes, but I'm no damn _victim._

Brimming with some sort of newfound arrogance ('cause this isn't confidence; only a shallower version of it), I plow through my house and gather up a few necessities – car keys, non-diet soda, letterman, pack of gum – and head back out to my car.

I'm not stupid. I can think of some smart things when I want to. And that conversation with Az? I recorded it onto my phone. Bitch won't know what to do when I go to join my parents at the police station and bust his ass.

And I really thought he was my friend… dammit. Can I never have or be sure of _anything?_

.o0o.

The police tell me they may or may not be allowed to use the recording since it wasn't a consented one or a professional one, but I bet it'll still count for something. And they inform us that there's a hate-crime here we can definitely sue for if he wanted to. And being the parents they are, my mom and dad were all gung-ho for _that._

By the time school starts up again after the weekend, I'm everywhere. My name, my situation, my sexuality, and Azimio and some other jocks are nowhere to be found, suspended until further notice, because the school doesn't take lightly to shit like this.

And the Glee Club – I think they're totally crazy, because they're being all sympathetic and nicer to me than they have been, as if all the slushies and insults and other shit I did to them never counted or mattered or even happened.

And while I'm still furious, Kurt is suddenly right there by my side, and suddenly I can't really think of anything else besides his soft voice talking me down, and his hand reaching out to willingly touch me. Comfortingly, telling me how he knows what it feels like, and how even with the furniture nailed to his roof, nothing compared to the threats being made against me.

And then I'm lost. "Threats?"

"They said, 'Now you gotta pay,' didn't they? There were pictures in the local paper of your garage. They left out yours and your family's names, but we all know it was you. The jocks leaked; proud of what they did, I suppose. And that's why they're all suspended," Kurt informs me, sighing regretfully, and I'm just standing here in the choir room looking probably very lost and astounded and generally floored.

"…Why am I the last to hear about my own life?" I grumble, instantly irate and turning away from Fancy to kick over an empty chair.

"…I'm sorry," is all he can think to say. "I hope you don't mind – not that I would have asked your permission anyway – but I told Blaine. He wants to help."

I grit my teeth. "Blaine? Really? What _is_ it with you and him? I don't like him." Not that he's a bad guy; he's a far better man than I probably ever will be, but still. Him being everything I'm not and obviously possessing the one thing I want – Kurt's undying affection – is enough to make me dislike him.

"…He's a dapper gentleman and a great mentor and friend," Kurt sniffs as he folds his arms over his chest. "You could do to learn a few things from him." He smirks a little. "Like tact, or grace, or how to keep your anger in check, or even a few manners, and while you're at it, perhaps even some vocabulary that doesn't revolve around curse words?"

I plop down on the risers the chairs are normally set up on. I sigh heavily. "Fuck you, Hummel." My heart isn't in the remark. But I do mean this: "I'm not in the best mood, and you picking out all my flaws isn't helping. Makes me wanna set the Fury on you." Really. I want to punch his beautiful face right now.

"Heaven forbid you actually use your fist," Kurt says with an oddly gentle voice, coming to sit down beside me on the riser. He's trying to cheer me up, I think; his eyes are full of light, like he wants to smile, but knows not to. "Look, Karofsky… I know this is probably really difficult for you –"

"No shit, Sherlock. What was your first clue?"

Ignoring my snorted sarcasm, he presses on, "– But you truly are not alone, okay? Blaine wants to help in any way he can, even if he's all brains and no brawn. And me? I want to help you, too. It's what semi-friends and fellow-gays do. You might not be my favorite person in the world…"

"Would be shocked if I was," I retort begrudgingly. I wish I were his favorite person in the world. Especially right now, in this moment; I feel… so close to him. And I wish I could kiss him again, but I just hate seeing that look on his face, the one from before, and the one from somewhat recently. That… shocked/lightly disgusted/confused expression all rolled into a single paled and wide-eyed face.

"…But you're growing on me. You're like the Beast: cranky and not quick to trust or like, on both sides, but capable of some compassion if given the chance," Kurt relays in that weird way he does where he sounds serious, joking, amused, and know-it-all combined into one.

"Did you just compare me to a hairy Disney character?" I frown at him, glancing over. A small smile takes over my mouth when he huffs a short laugh.

"Heh, yeah, I guess I did. Made you feel better though, didn't it?"

"Not really," I say, smiling still, "Only made me feel even more like an ugly, fuzzy bully. Besides, what would that make you? Beauty?"

Kurt makes a face. "I wouldn't step so far," he says a tad icily. He warms again as he adds, "But you're not fuzzy or ugly. A bully and a jerk, maybe, but… Are you fuzzy?"

"I can't believe you took back how ugly I am," I say, not missing it. "And yes, I'm fuzzy. Aren't most guys?"

"No. Well, at least, Finn, Puck, Mike, Sam, and I aren't."

I raise my eyebrows and lean back on my palms, looking away. "Ffft, I don't even want to _know_ how you know that."

"Shut up! I was in football once last year, remember? I've seen the first three change. And Sam was Rocky when we did Rocky Horror Picture Show," Kurt explains hastily, his face pink and his hand reaching out to smack me lightly on the forearm to further shut me up.

I bite back a laugh. "So you _do_ check out other guys in the locker room."

"…Don't act like you never have," Kurt mutters, and yeah, okay, I can't deny that one.

Changing the subject, I add, "You actually did make me feel better, though. This… civil conversation is kinda nice. Friendly. I'm not used to that." And I don't know why I'm being so open, but I am. "And hey, where is everyone else? Glee was supposed to start, like, ten minutes ago."

"They must be held up," Kurt says quickly. Too quick.

"…Did you ask them not to come in here while you talked to me or something?" I accuse, a defensive frown back on my face. "I don't need to be babied, Fancy. I'm no delicate flower, no damsel in distress. That's _your_ forte."

"I'm constantly shocked at your hidden vocabulary not littered with swears," he comments idly, clearly avoiding the accusation.

I stand from the risers. "Okay, that's it. I'm leaving."

"What? Why? We have practice to do! Sectionals are –"

"Almost here. Yeah, I know. But you guys don't need me much anyway, and besides, if you and your friends are going to keep treating me like some pitiful puppy in need, then I'm out of here." And I don't know why I'm being so cruel. These people are trying to be kind and caring toward me. But I dunno, call me traditional, but aren't people supposed to hold grudges forever? And it's not like they know about the 'tragedy' that is my death that led me here, to this version of my life. So why are they all acting like my garage getting messed up is some huge tragedy of its own?

"Dave, that's not what we're trying to do, and you know it," Kurt retorts sternly, standing up, all defiant again.

And hold up, "Did you just call me by my first name?"

"Yes, and?"

"…Nothing, Fancy. It's just… different." I murmur, and I can feel my face flushing a little. Does he have any idea how _amazing_ it sounds to hear my real name (Karofsky is just a family name; it doesn't mean anything, it's just as impersonal to me as, 'sir' or 'mister,' or the most casual, 'dude') fall from his lips.

"I should hope so. It gets tiring, pronouncing your last name all the time. 'Dave' is much shorter and to the point. And I think we're on terms positive enough to earn first names, don't you? So cut the 'Fancy' and 'Hummel' bullcrap and just call me 'Kurt,' all right? And _stay._ Your voice is actually a great addition to our group, and with what you're going through right now, you need to keep all the friends you can get your grubby hands on."

With his miniature speech over with, Kurt selects a seat and sits down in it, crossing his legs in that remotely sexy way before placing his folded hands atop his knees. And he looks away, toward the door, nodding at someone behind me.

Everyone files in (probably eavesdroppers, and also waiting for the signal to enter anyhow), and I don't know what to do with myself.

Reluctant, I groan and take a seat near Evans. He sends a brief smile before Shuester starts yammering away about the Sectionals set list, and whom we're up against. I already knew about Dalton.

Part of me wonders what it must have been like the first time around; how did everyone feel, seeing Kurt on stage with the Wobblers or whatever their club is called? If I had been there, I would have been pissed; not at Kurt, but at that preppy school for stealing him. Were the other gleeks here angry, too? Or were they just proud of Kurt for singing his heart out despite the odds? I wonder.

But it doesn't matter now. The only thing that matters is placing in Sectionals, getting to Regionals, praying to move on to Nationals, and then… maybe work out this homophobic problem following me around before senior year?

That'd be fan-fucking-tastic.


	3. Chapter 3

_It's stupid,_

_The thoughts you come up with_

_When you're thrown into a dizzy tizzy_

_Just because the person you have a crush on_

_Is sitting too close, leaning over, too comfortable with you,_

_And acting totally oblivious_

_Even though they_ know _you like them._

_And it's even worse when you're starting to think of love songs you'd like to sing to them_

_Or duets you'd like to sing_ with _them_

_And it's just so fucking gay_

_Because you're wondering if you've gone soft,_

_And if this person you like has always been this subtly flirtatious._

_Ever around people who used to bully them._

"Kurt, could you just _stop_ already?" I snarl, leaning away. "Seriously! Knock it the fuck off!"

"…What are you talking about?" he says innocently, his voice always so damn soft and lovely-sounding. Why does he break me like this? Make me feel all weak and weird around him? Tch, it's no wonder I harassed him so much; it was to compensate for how he affected me without even _trying._

"I know what you're doing, Kurt," I say tightly, and I want to call him Hummel instead – make it less personal – but I can't. We agreed not to use last names anymore. "And I don't like it. So just stop it, okay? And focus on… something else. Like, oh, I dunno, _maybe the fact that we're at Sectionals right now?_ So you should probably be doing what I'm trying to do: remember all the lyrics and steps."

"I've done this a few times before. I already have it down-pat," Kurt returns flippantly. "And I still don't know what you're referring to," he says, but even as he does so, he adjusts his seating on the couch in the greenroom just enough to move closer to me, our thighs brushing, and I automatically lick my bottom lip.

_Dammit,_ the action only makes Kurt _smile,_ and I can't take his smile. I stand suddenly, claiming to have to go to the bathroom. I rush out, and as soon as I'm in there, I notice a Warbler – part of the competition, one of the stuck-up Dalton kids – washing his hands in the sink. He turns and smiles. It's Bland in all his short-dark-and-handsome glory.

"Why, hello David," he says politely. "How are things? Kurt informed me of your recent… run-in with a few hooligans at your house, and I would just like you to know that you have my sympathies. I hope I can help bring them to justice. No gay should be discriminated against."

"Look, Blaine, I don't want your 'sympathies' or your help, okay? I've got everything under control. They haven't even bugged me in a while, so it's nothing. Just mind your own fucking business," I growl, stalking past him.

He smiles, nods, and reaches for a paper towel to dry his hands. "You're right. I'm sorry, David. I won't interfere if you don't want me to." He chuckles a little. "You know, one of my close friends is also named David."

"Yeah, well. I go by Dave, and I bet your prissy friend refuses to shorten his name 'cause he likes to be all professional 'bout things, am I right?" I snort in reply, moving over to the urinals. Might as well try to go to the bathroom while I'm here; before my nerves get the better of me on stage and I have to go later. It happens when I used to play hide and seek as a kid; didn't go to the bathroom before I played, and then as soon as I was hidden, I had to pee. Fuckin' sucks.

"Dave, then?" Blaine smirks, and I catch him glancing over my shoulder, and _what the fuck, is he trying to check me out?_ Slimeball!

I quickly cover myself, suddenly both disgusted and embarrassed. "No. You can call me Karofsky like everyone else, Slick. And you can kindly get the fuck out so I can piss."

"Slick? A reference to my gelled hair, no doubt. Clever," he says, and there's something about his smile that feels fake, meant to hide his offense to the remark I made. "And all right, I'll leave, since you're clearly uncomfortable. I apologize. Good luck out there, though!" He says brightly, and then promptly exits the tiny public restroom.

Sighing, I finish my business and habitually don't look at myself in the mirror as I wash my hands, unlike how Mr. Self-Centered had been a moment ago. God, I hate him. He's not a bad guy or anything, but I just don't like him. At all. And I admittedly get a little jealous every time Kurt mentions and/or hangs out with him. Like that time Kurt and Mercedes went to Breadstix with Blaine, or the way the two greeted each other when we first arrived here.

But I was at the wedding. And Blaine wasn't. And it was a lucky break, because I was only there to see the Hummel and Hudson families come together because New Directions was hired as the wedding's band, and oh hey, aren't I in that geeky club now?

Yeah. I am. And I kind of enjoy it, but you'll never hear me admit it aloud.

The wedding was nice, though. I've never seen two older people in love as much as Finn's and Kurt's parents. My own included. They just seemed… so happy. I wish I can have something like that when I'm older, since I was twenty-three and still single before. But… could I have that sort of happiness with a guy?

I don't know. I really don't.

I exit the bathroom and make my way back to the greenroom, hoping I wasn't gone too suspiciously long. When I get back, Kurt sends me this look – yet another I can't interpret because he's showing too many emotions at once – and as I sit down, I'm brought back to the wedding again, when I saw that Kurt was happy to the brink of tears throughout the entire thing, and how Finn danced with him and I was both extremely jealous and utterly happy for him at the same time. They make good brothers, even if Kurt used to have a crush on the awkwardly tall guy.

"Want to go watch the Warblers?" Kurt suggests, standing suddenly. "They should be on next."

"Oh! I do. I need to hear the competition," Rachel cuts in fluidly, looking determined and annoyingly adorable dressed in her little matching outfit. I like that, for these goofy things, all the girls have essentially the same dress, but each of them wears it differently because of their skin tones and hair colors and body shapes, and they all look good. And yeah, so I was checking out the guys in their matching clothes a little bit more, but I hid it better. Because a lot of people know what I prefer, especially the entire Glee Club, but I try to play it down.

"I'll come with you," Mercedes says sassily. "I'd like to see how good these guys are."

"Pretty good," Kurt says with a shrug. "I mean, I was a spy, remember? A poorly conducted one, but I did succeed in hearing them sing. I think I heard rumors that they'll be doing a Train song this time around, and I'm curious to see how that will sound with their mostly-acapella-styled vocals."

"I second that opinion," Rachel nods firmly. She takes Mercedes and Kurt by the arms and starts leading out of the greenroom.

"Hey, now wait a minute," Shuester cuts in, and I think he's about to tell them not to go, but instead, he says with a smirk, "I'm coming, too."

The entire club ends up going except Puckerman and me. We could care less what the preppy fuckers sound like, so we stay behind and flick paper footballs at each other into finger-formed forks.

"Heh, I remember when Kurt was kicker," Puckerman remarks idly, a slight smile on his face. "Guy's a fruitcake, but damn if he can't kick like no one else. We won with him on the team. And if not for Bieste now, we'd probably be back to losing without him."

"I wasn't on the team back then," I say as I flick the folded triangle back at him. I narrowly make it past his thumbs on the bottom of the goal. "But I came to the games, since my pal Az was on the team. You guys did suck without any confidence. But Kurt kinda gave that to you, huh?"

"Well, he at least shook us of our nerves by making us dance like Beyoncé," Puck laughs. "It felt stupid, and probably looks ridiculous with a bunch of footballers dancin' to 'Single Ladies,' but… it was kinda fun, fuckin' with the other team's heads, and it made the girls swarm us afterward, so it was all good." He flicks the triangle back, and it smacks me in the nose, making him laugh harder. I laugh, too, and I realize we're bonding. Just a little. Puckerman seems to notice, too, because as I flick the football back he just catches it and looks at me for a full second. Then, "Hey, why were you and I such assholes to everyone before? I mean, we still are, but not as much. Not to the Glee members. And we're almost… friends. How the hell did that happen?"

I shrug a little, shifting uncomfortably. "I dunno. Things change."

"But how, man? That's what I wanna know."

"…How good are you at keeping secrets, Puckerman?" I say, looking at him with a dead serious stare.

He eyes me a bit suspiciously, then quirks a brow and smirks a bit. "Not very reliable. I leak if it's somethin' interesting. But hey, if it'll get me some answers, I might reconsider. Why, dude? What is it? Does it have to do with you being gay?"

"Yeah, actually," I sigh, reluctant. "But I guess you'd understand, man. I mean, you were more of a bully than I was – putting Artie in a porta-potty last year, _really_? There's something wrong with hurtin' a kid in a wheelchair, man."

"Hey, I made it up to him! We're pals now. We play Halo at his house, he tutors me, and we get waffles with Finn every Friday before a game," he says in his defense.

I shrug. "Whatever. Point is, we're both douchebags. But this dumb club… softened us a little. Made us more human or something. And the only reason why I'm here, why things have changed for me, at least, is because… uh. Well. I kissed Kurt."

Puck blinks for a second, then bursts out laughing. "Ohh man, that's a good one! Like he would ever let you. That's fuckin' funny, man. But seriously, why are things different for you?"

"Puck, dude, I'm being serious. I kissed him. And no, he didn't let me. It was kinda… forced. But not like sexual assault or anything, okay? I wasn't, like, doing it to force a s-sexual rise outta him or rape him or something. It was just, like, a heat-of-the-moment thing. But still, it started all of this weirdness." It's the closest excuse I can give to the start, anyway. Can't really tell him how I died and stuff. He wouldn't believe me, and probably offer to ship me to a psych ward. (I hate how I stuttered over the word, 'sexual.' I'm such a wuss.)

Puck looks mildly interested, now. "That so? I'm both tempted to hit ya for messin' with my boy Kurt, but at the same time, I'm oddly proud of you, dude. I mean, getting something from him earns you a fistbump, 'cause if I was gay, I'd totally try to tap that." And he grins, leaning over to touch knuckles with me.

I'm stunned, but I hide it behind a short chuckle. "You're fuckin' weird, Puckerman. But you're also cool. Thanks for being like that. It was kind of a big deal to me, so…"

"I bet!" he laughs. "Guy like you lockin' lips with Kurt Hummel? Not as big as getting laid, homo- or heterosexually, but still pretty big. I'm impressed. And for once, I think I won't tell. Well, I won't tell Santana, anyway. She'd just leak it everyone. But I can't keep any promises against Finn or someone else equally deserving to be in the need-to-know crowd."

"I get that," I say, even if I want to threaten him to keep the secret. But I have to be different this time around; this is my second chance, after all. Got to try and make things right. "So, think they'll be getting back soon?"

And he starts up another round, flicking the football at me. "Yeah, I think so. Songs aren't exactly the longest things in the world. And they give you less to do at Sectionals than Regionals. If I remember, anyway."

Sure enough, minutes later, everyone is filing back in. "Damn, they're awesome." Artie curses. "We gotta show these people up. And intensely." He shrugs in his wheelchair, adjusting it to park next to where Brittany sits down. Although he was pretty jealous this past week, seeming to think that Brittany has been cheating on him with Mike. If I remember right, at some point last year, Brittany had been with Mike and Santana with that guy Matt, so I guess he has reason to be jealous. Not that any of it matters now, though, since Brittany and Santana have been with just about everybody already. Including each other, I'm willing to bet.

"And epically, too. That would help," Finn sighs. He glances over at Puck and me. "Hey, didn't you two want to hear the competition? You kinda missed out."

I shrug. "Nah. Like I care what Bland and his cronies sound like. And Puck's just lazy."

"Yeah, I didn't want to get up just yet," the Mohawked teen shrugs, and reclines back to put his crosses heels up on the table, and his hands behind his head. "Tell me when we go on, 'kay?"

"It's soon, so you might as well get up now," Shuester says casually. "We need to get ready behind the curtains. Remember, Quinn, Sam: you two are my openers this time around. Santana, I hope your vocals are all warmed up, because you have a long solo, girl."

"Trust me, Mr. Shue, I've got things _handled,_ " Santana scoffs, clearly very confident in herself. But she has every reason to be; I caught her practicing by herself this week. She didn't know I was there, but I was listening. And she sounded… amazing. More than I expected from her, actually.

"Dave, since you're new to this, I thought maybe you'd like to go over a few scales with me," Rachel says, suddenly plopping down beside me. She grins broadly, sweetly, and means it. "Sam, you're also a little new, so would you like to join us?" she asks, peering over his shoulder at him.

"Uh, sure," the blond replies as he comes over by us. He's about to sit down, but Rachel wags her finger at him as she stands up from the sofa.

"No, no; everyone knows singing is best done when you're standing, so that your diaphragm can move easier. Now then, Dave, get up, and let's begin!"

We run a few of those cheesy choir warm-ups, everyone else joining in sooner or later because it's somehow as contagious as a laugh or yawn.

And then it's time to go out on stage.

I can feel my heart in my throat as I pace out there, and I can feel my stomach lurch as Kurt brushes past me to stand in his place near his stepbrother, and I honestly feel like I shouldn't be half as twitchy as I feel, like it's retarded to feel this way, but I can't escape it.

Rachel notices the way my forehead is starting to break into a sweat. Oddly kindly, she steps over to me and takes out a tissue hidden behind the Achilles heel of her left shoe, bringing it up to my face to dab at my skin. "Don't be nervous, Dave. I know this isn't your thing, and you kind of bullied into it – haha, get it? Bullied? – Um, anyway… don't worry, okay? We're a fantastic group. We're sure to win. And all those people out there came to see us. They're parents and friends and music lovers, and they aren't going to stare or single out your voice outside of your few solo lines, all right? So you'll be fine. You have a great voice, Dave," she adds, lowering her hand and smiling up at me. "Let it out without fear. Which is saying a lot, because I don't always compliment people on their voices."

And I don't know what spurned her pep speech, or what makes her feel so comfortable around me when I know I've slushied her before (although I've done that to almost everyone; the locker slams were solely for Kurt, and the dumpster dives were done by others except me, and the same goes for any porta-potty locks), but she's acting like we might become friends.

And I don't know what it is, but I think I do want Rachel Berry as a friend. She's obnoxiously star-oriented, obsessed with becoming famous, and she's a little high-strung and bossy, but she's nice to people at the same time. Nice to _me._ And it's enough to make me smile back at her, thank her, and inhale slowly to get ready as the curtains open and Rachel returns to her place.

And then we sing.

.o0o.

"We tied? How could we _tie?_ They were great and all, but we totally rocked the house!" Santana roars, clearly ticked off. "Those losers are totally below us!"

Rachel nods fiercely. "I agree; this is an outrage! Why didn't we win? They gave nearly all their vocals to one person –"

"But Blaine is undeniably an amazing singer," Kurt butts in, trying to defend his friend from the opposing school.

The brunette shakes her head. "Be that as it may, we deserved first place."

"Yeah, what Rachel said," Santana argues, and Shuester looks really lost.

"Guys, aren't you even a little grateful that we placed at all? A tie is a win, too; it means we get to go to Regionals. Or are all of you forgetting that?" he says, sternly but softly.

Santana groans and places her hands on her hips; Rachel huffs and fists her hands at her sides. However, they both stand down, which makes the tension decrease.

"I think it's awesome," Finn says, trying to brighten the mood. "And we should totally all go celebrate our win. What d'ya think, Mr. Shue? Ice cream from DQ for everyone?"

"I think that's a grand idea, Finn," the teacher smiles.

We took a bus here, and my parents didn't attend, but I don't feel much like bussing over to a Dairy Queen for ice cream. I just want to go home.

I lag behind, wondering if I have enough money in my wallet to get a taxi or go on a public bus to go back home.

"Dave?" I hear Kurt's voice say, and I glance up to find him wandering back from the others, who are heading out to the bus to inform the driver of where they'll be heading next. He joins me, falling in step with me at my side. "You seem depressed. We won! You should be ecstatic."

"I am," I say, a smile coming to my lips. I really am; I've never won something like this before. It feels great. "I just… don't feel like ice cream, that's all. I'd rather go home, grab a bag of Cheetos, and crash on my couch for some quality me-and-the-TV time."

Kurt's mouth quirks into a smile. "Figures. Typical lazy-lone-jock behavior. But trust me, it's more fun to get ice cream with New Directions. So come on, and quit being such a sourpuss."

"Since when do you care?" I say, but not unkindly. I genuinely want to know. "I know you said I'm 'growing on you,' or whatever, but…" And I prod him for information, my eyes scanning his face.

He flushes minutely. "Since the wedding, I suppose. You were so gentle and polite to everyone, and you even apologized to my dad about what you did, even though he looked like he wanted to punch you. But he told me later that you're a respectable person, owning up to your wrongs like that, and once I told him that you were the person whose garage was violated, he immediately decided to forgive you for bullying me in favor of, well, understanding. I think he's been talking to your dad, too."

"Oh, no," I groan. "Two dads with gay sons talking? That's dangerous, Fanc– I mean, Kurt. Next thing you know, they'll be having beers together and plotting on taking us to a Gay Rights Parade."

"As awesome as it would be to be part of that, it would be completely embarrassing and might damage our reputations, so I agree with you," Kurt says with a short laugh, and the fact that something I said triggered a laugh makes my heart flutter a little. I shiver unnoticeably; it's a little chilly outside, and as we load onto the bus, all I can think of is how talking to Kurt makes me happier than anything else. Why did I bully him for so long, again? It was a lot easier to be mean, sure, but not nearly as satisfying.

Kurt, being ahead of me, chooses a seat. But as I'm about to walk past and find one for myself, he tugs on my arm.

"Sit with me, Dave," he says, and is it the streetlamp light coming in through the window at an odd angle, or are those vague shadows on Kurt's cheeks actually him _blushing?_

"Um… okay," I say softly, taking my place beside him. Rachel is with Finn across the aisle from us, and she seems to be sending me a smile. I ignore it and clear my throat. "Um, so, do any of us even have money for ice cream?"

"I don't because I forgot to bring some, but just going out with everyone is fun," Kurt says.

"D-do you want ice cream? I could, uh, pay for you," I say suddenly, not expecting myself to utter the thought that briefly passed by in my head. I immediately blush; dammit, why did I have to offer that? He doesn't like me like that. I _know_ he has a crush on Blaine; I've seen Blaine's picture in Kurt's locker before. So why am I even bothering to try…? Wasn't I supposed to be focusing on getting through school and college and mending my life _that_ way?

"That sounds a lot like something a boyfriend would do," Kurt teases, but there's something in voice that sounds like he's startled by the offer. Pleasantly startled.

"Um… I guess so, but friends pay for each other, too, you know," I add hastily. "This isn't… I mean, I just thought I'd be nice." Yeah, that's all.

"Well, in that case, how can I turn down free ice cream?" Kurt grins. "It might be sugar and unnecessary calories, but I haven't had any in forever, and this is a time for celebration. So… thanks, Dave."

"Uh. No problem," I answer in a mutter under my breath, looking away, my hands clasped together in my lap.

"You know," Kurt says suddenly, "After we went, while the judges were judging, Blaine talked to me. He said you two spoke when you went to the bathroom, and that you weren't very polite to him."

"No, I wasn't," I retort, glancing back at him. "I told you: I don't like him. He and I don't click. Let's leave it at that."

"Really? Because I think you only act that way toward him out of spite, because you're jealous of him," Kurt replies, his eyes borrowing into mine, daring me to challenge his statement.

I can feel my brows come together, and my lips twitch, nearly turning into a sneer. "Don't start, Kurt."

"I'm not trying to," he answer, his gaze melting into something less intense. "I'm just trying to figure you out. And, honestly, I get a kick out of your reactions. They're adorable."

"…Adorable?" I scoff, offended. How can anything I do be adorable?

"It's because you like me," he adds, and nope, that wasn't the streetlamps before. He's definitely blushing; the light streaming in from the moving bus's windows is enough to tell me that. "That's why you're jealous, and why I think your reactions are adorable." He adverts his gaze. "It's also why I'm letting you buy me ice cream."

My face couldn't be hotter-feeling, I swear. "You… you're horrible, Kurt," I say grumpily, but I'm actually a little… flattered? Excited? I don't know.

"It's horrible that I'm trying to give you a chance?" Kurt returns, his eyes back on my face, and this time I have to look away.

Before I can respond, the bus pulls into a Dairy Queen parking lot. We all file out, and behind me, Kurt is lightly touching my jacket, and it's driving me crazy. He's giving me a chance? What, to get on his good side? To have him forgive me (unless he already has)? To _date_ him?

My heart leaps at that last thought. I really, really wouldn't mind dating him. Being free to touch and kiss him whenever I want; free to show the entirety of my feelings for him directly in front of him; free to tell him that I love him.

Wait… I do? Huh. Guess so. Never really wanted to put two and two together – how my hormones rage around him (lust) and the attraction I have toward his personality (like) – to create some sort of loving feeling. It's weird, but warm and comfortable. I smile to myself, and try my best not to stare as Kurt cuts in front of me and orders his ice cream, glancing back at me, waiting for me to pay. I dig into my wallet, hand him the money, and don't miss how our fingers touch on purpose. On _purpose._ And that weird, possibly-love feelings blossoms all over again, and my fingers itch to bring him closer to me.

Dammit. I really don't want this to happen, not here or now; I have a second chance, and I shouldn't waste it, but I fear something bad will happen if I let myself get too close to the person I desire most.

.o0o.

Okay, this is fucking sexual _torture._ Why the hell did he have to pick a cookie dough Blizzard? He keeps licking vanilla ice cream slowly off of a spoon, savoring it, nibbling on the cookie bits, and licks his lips often. And sometimes a little piece will fall off the spoon and he'll try reaching it on the corner of his mouth with his tongue, or he'll swipe it with a finger and suck it off.

And _shitshitshit_ since when is ice cream so sexy? And how come Kurt seems so blissfully ignorant when it comes to how I'm reacting to watching him eat said ice cream? Doesn't he notice how I'm staring? 'Cause I really can't stop. I try and look away, but my eyes get dragged right back to that perfectly pink mouth, and I know I'm licking my lips a little too often because of how dry my mouth keeps getting from my jaw hanging slack.

"Ku… rt," I say, clearing my throat halfway through his name. "Why don't you, uh… why don't you go sit with Finn and Rachel?"

"Why?" he says, his eyes meeting mine as he stabs his spoon into the Blizzard. "Something wrong? You look uncomfortable."

"You can't seriously be that stupid," I say icily, fidgeting in my seat, hands between my legs temporarily to try and ward off the inevitable, since Kurt doing those things with his mouth are probably going to be forever etched into my wank bank. _Fuck._

He looks puzzled for barely a millisecond before his eyes zoom to my flushed face, my position, and trembles as he processes my words. His mouth falls into a small 'O' and he looks away, giggling nervously. "Ah, um. Right. Maybe I should," he says, but then he's looking back at me, smile fading. "But… I don't intend on moving. Sorry, Dave, but you'll have to suffer a while longer until I can finish my ice cream."

"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?" I hiss, half tempted to do something I might regret.

"I _mean,_ it's not half bad, sitting here with you, even if you're oddly quiet and keep staring. I like the attention, and honestly, I've been thinking back to that kiss."

Oh, no. Not a good place.

"You apologized after you did it, but I don't think you were sorry for kissing me. You were sorry for bullying me, or something along those lines. And in retrospect, I was a little confused and shocked and just slightly disgusted – I hated your guts then – but… in retrospect, it was a good kiss, even for a first, even if I didn't reciprocate. You're talented," he says, and there's a slight smile on his lips, and a heavy amount of pink on his cheeks. "Therefore… I've been wondering what it would be like to give you a chance, and maybe have you try again. Right this time."

Okay, my heart totally skipped a few beats, and my lungs have forgotten how to function. I blink once, twice, inhale shakily, exhale, and murmur, "Really?" because I don't believe this, but I want it so badly that I'm aching.

Weeks being in Glee Club has certainly paid off. As has going to a wedding for a couple I hardly know, humiliating myself by apologizing to a rather protective father, and allowing things to come and go as they have, like my dad's fight at work and Azimio-and-friends' attack on my garage and generally acting more like my old self around these people. Around Kurt. It's paid off, even when I hadn't intended to get a payment at all.

"I wouldn't say it if it weren't the truth," the soprano shrugs, and I want to fucking leap over the table and kiss him. He has no idea how happy he makes me.

"In that case," I murmur, a smile growing rapidly on my lips, "I won't let you down."

He smirks, scoops a bite of Blizzard onto his spoon again, and slips it past his teeth, lips clamping over the plastic. Swallowing, he says lightly, "I knew you wouldn't."


	4. Chapter 4

_I really hate_

_Those irritating, nagging thoughts_

_That you can sometimes get last at night_

_When you're trying to sleep_

_But your brain just won't SHUT THE FUCK UP ALREADY,_

_And you suddenly contract insomnia_

_Just like me._

All I can do is keep going back to three things from tonight: Kurt's mind-blowing, angelic, every-fucking-thing-else solo for 'Don't Cry For Me Argentina;' Kurt licking his ice cream and generally flirting with me; and then Kurt admitting that he's going to give me a _chance._

And I'm kind of tossing and turning, here, caught up between the gratuitous amounts of Kurt Hummel in my brain and the sounds of Billy Idol (shut up, his music rocks, okay?) buzzing in my ears from my headphones. I turn down the volume on my iPod a little, and just lay there for a second, the small device resting on my stomach.

Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts…

Kurt thoughts. Music thoughts. Kurt singing thoughts. Thoughts of first dates, first kisses (well, the first on good terms, anyway), and first – Oh God, what if Kurt _sang_ breathily in my ear during our first time, and made some sort of high-pitched note when he, when he…

Uh.

Um.

_Shit._

If I keep this up, the next thing I know, my brain will start traveling very south-of-the-boarder, and I don't mean Mexico. It's already started to, and I need to _keep calm_ or else I might have to resort to those stupid, carnal, teenage urges, which I really don't want to do right now because I really just want to SLEEP, dammit!

Seeking distractions, I pick up my iPod again and shuffle over to the videos I have saved on it. I can always amuse myself with Monty Python's _Holy Grail_ or _Life of Brian._ And there's always the Yu-Gi-Oh! Abridged series, 'cause that shit is funny as Hell. I remember when all the kids back in, like, third grade would trade and "battle" with Pokémon and Yu-Gi-Oh! cards. I wasn't one of them, but I secretly watched the cartoons (animes, I later found out) when I was young. Mostly out of boredom. I even liked Pokémon better, but I don't know, this abridged series – the original one to be made on the Internet, I guess – makes me laugh every single time. They point out basically every flaw and plot-hole in the entire show, especially the English version (the one I grew up with, mind you). And yeah, it's pretty hilarious.

Kinda wonder why Kaiba is such a dick, though. I mean, I'm not much better than he is, I guess, but the guy's crazier. Obsessed with dragons. Weirdo. But not as weird as that guy Pegasus. Dude's gay (and I would know). And he has major issues. _Yeesh._

I watch a few of the nearly-ten-minute-long episodes and finally start to feel sleepy. I'm just about to doze off, iPod still in hand atop my abdomen, when my phone on my bedside table suddenly goes off, vibrating away on the wood.

I startle forward, launching into sitting position, one of my ear-buds falling out. I snatch it off the hard surface and check the screen with groggy (but clearing) eyes.

It's… from Kurt.

_'I can't sleep. And since the whole Glee Club swapped numbers before Sectionals, and I had yours, I was just… wondering if you're awake, too. –Kurt.'_

I stare at the screen for a full minute, blinking as the words soak into my skull and start to make sense. When they finally do, a shiver runs down my spine, and a smile takes over my facial features. Quickly, I type out a response. Normally I make a lot of shortcuts when I text, but noticing the way his is perfectly correct intimidates me a little, so I try my best to match my texting style to his. It's a little cheesy, trying to 'impress' him and whatnot, but hey, I can't seem dumb all the time. It gets boring.

_'Yeah, I can't sleep. And it's after two in the morning. Just what is my problem? My brain won't shut up. –Big D'_

I don't have to wait very long for a reply. Kurt's texting back within a minute, and I can just imagine his slim thumbs flying across the screen of his iPhone. The reply reads, _'Oh, good! So I'm not alone, then. Convenient. C; …Although, your statement begs the question: what are you thinking about so intensely that you can't sleep? –Kurt.'_

I tense on my bed, reclining back against my headboard. What can I tell him? The truth is that I was thinking about him, clean and dirty thoughts alike. Uh. It might be better to lie. Or bend the truth a little.

Hmm, bending is better than snapping, so a half-truth, half-lie it is.

_'I was thinking about your singing. You were great tonight with that solo of yours. And everybody else sounded great, too. And I was thinking about how my parents have been acting lately as far as my sexuality is concerned. –Big D'_

_'My singing, really? You're a flatterer, David. However, as for your parents… is it positive or negative? –Kurt.'_

_'I dunno,'_ I admit, my fingers freezing on the tiny keypad for a second. I worry my bottom lip with my teeth fro a moment, my lips tasting a bit like toothpaste still, even though I brushed my teeth about three hours ago. _'Mostly positive, I guess. They love me and stuff. But we've been getting more threats, and this time not from Az. Someone else. Bigger people; older, more gang-oriented. I dunno. Kinda worries me. Think it's all empty, or real? I'd hate it if it were real. I don't want to die aga-'_ And I cut myself off and delete the last, incomplete phrase before I press 'send,' my usual name attached at the end. Maybe I should change it, though; it's a joke among old friends, one Kurt wouldn't understand, and might misinterpret. (Because the 'big' in the nickname isn't a penis joke; it's referring to my height and build. And 'D' is just for Dave. Obviously. And not 'dickhead' or 'douchebag' or something.)

_'Oh… wow. I'm so sorry to hear that, Dave! But you know, I bet it's an empty threat. Why would some adults be after you? It's nice that Azimio backed off, though. I have hope that he'll be your friend again someday, or at least tolerant. Is he the reason why you were so homophobic before? –Kurt.'_

_'No, I was homophobic for other reasons, although him encouraging my picking on you before was… well, it helped fuel me, I guess. So I guess it's a little his fault? Like about ten percent. The other ninety is my extended family and myself and stuff. But, uh… what about you? Anything worth sharing? –Dave.'_

_'Yeah, there's one thing… Know how I'm texting you right now, and so late at night, too? Well, it's because… I had a short dream, and you were in it. And when I woke up, I couldn't get back to sleep because of it. It… troubled me. –Kurt.'_

Uhh. I can't even think all of a sudden. Thoughts race through my head, some I'm not proud of, and I vaguely, timidly respond, _'What kind of dream? –Dave.'_

It's a little bit longer before I get a response. _'For the love of Godiva chocolate, what sort of dream did you think I meant? Pervert. I was referring to one of those hallucinogenic-like dreams that make no sense but convey a lot of strong emotion in it. In the dream, you were… dying. Drowning, actually, in a car. You went over a bridge, and you looked a little older. I don't know. I just know that I was on the shore, and I could see you, and I was terrified for you life. I don't know why I dreamt it, but it scared me. So I just had to text you, I guess. Just to remind myself that my new friend is okay. –Kurt.'_

Whoa. Intense. I mean, it's a little creepy-suspicious that he dreamt of my death, the exact event that led me here, but it's also really… sweet. We called me his friend and wanted to check on me. I'm all… content inside, now.

Smiling softly, I reply, _'Oh. Sorry, my teenage mind ventures to unholy places. Well, anyway, it's nothing to worry about. Just a dream, right? And look, here I am, totally fine. Not drowning somewhere. Do you can rest easy. But… we're friends, really? And here I thought you only wanted to be acquaintances. ;D –Dave.'_

_'Oh, shut up,'_ comes the immediate response. _'You know I like you, now. –Kurt.'_

_'Like-like?'_ I tease, feeling goofy-flirty-stupid as I type it out on my phone, _'Or only "like?" –Dave.'_

It takes a moment, but soon my phone is alive once again in my hands, this time with a phone call. I answer immediately. "Yes?" I inquire, knowing full well who it is without looking.

"You really need to learn to shut up," Kurt's voice responds with a mixture of irritated and amused tones.

"But it's fun messing with you," I say effortlessly as I recline backward on my bed, one hand behind my head to soften the headboard's wood against my skull. "And I do want to know what you meant."

"Well… that's why I called. I can't quite explain it. I like you as a friend, Dave, it's true, but there's… something else. Something that is my reasoning fro wanting to give you a chance and all that. Because I think it could be a good thing, something that might work out, if only for a while. I don't know. You perplex me, so if anything, I'll be entertained while trying to puzzle you out," he informs me with a sigh, as if tired of his own thoughts and even more tired from trying to express them.

I smile to myself, bumping out (but not ignoring completely) the tiny notion about how adorable he is that passes through my mind. With a lick to my lips, I reply, "I'm confusing? Fancy, clearly you haven't paid any attention to yourself. You are one of the most complex people I know, and I will never have you figured out." Shaking my head, I say, "And I'm a simple guy, really. I just… don't trust easily."

"But you trust me?" Kurt challenges, sounding like he has a frown on his face.

I nod. "More or less. I mean, you know my worst secret – uh, even though now like half the school does, too – but still, that counts for something. And I guess you're the only real friend I have anymore," I offer, hoping he accepts this as an answer. I don't have much else to own up to. This is all I have: being a gay-jock-bully is pretty much all that makes up who I am/was. I have my little quirks – my taste in music and movies and food, my habit of wearing a lot of polos and t-shirts, my hidden academic talents – but other than that? Not much. Dave Karofsky is not a complicated person. I don't see why he can't figure me out.

"Boyfriend," he corrects firmly but lowly, as if saying the statement is both embarrassing and final. "Because I have decided to start dating you."

I'm speechless for a second, my mouth open but my throat and mouth incapable of getting any words out. Then, slowly, I say with a interested tone, "I'm kinda pissed off that you can make that decision like it's nothing big, like you're in total control, and yet I'm also kinda happy beyond belief and a tiny bit suspicious. Like, what made you decide this all of a sudden?"

He sounds flustered and on the defense as he rushes through his response. "I already told you, didn't I? You've grown on me. I'm giving you a chance, since you've changed. And there's that something there that I can't explain."

"Think they call that 'chemistry,'" I return playfully, hoping I don't sound half as jovial as I feel, because that might creep Kurt out. But I can't help it. I'm just suddenly bursting with a sort of happiness I've never felt before. And it's awful, because it makes me have this almost hunger to see Kurt again, to be near him again, and if we start dating, it might mean getting to touch him again, freely this time, desired for once. Maybe, I can't help, either, to add mentally.

"Call it what you like, it's there nonetheless, and it frustrates me. I'm not sure I want this; but I know you do, and somehow, that makes me okay with it." Kurt sounds as though he's debating something with himself. "No, wait. That came out wrong. I don't know what I meant, but I didn't mean anything hurtful, I can promise you that." He sighs. "It's getting so late. I should be asleep. I can already hear Finn's light snoring from across the room. I'm surprised my talking hasn't woken him yet."

"I'm surprised my talking hasn't waken my parents up," I agree with a shrug. "But it's okay, Kurt. I know you didn't mean anything bad when you said that. I think you just mean that you aren't sure if you're ready for a relationship, especially with your former bully, and that's totally reasonable. Fuck, if I were you, I wouldn't even have bothered with someone like me."

Okay, so I'm aware what throughout this miniature ramble, my voice grew increasingly, noticeably lower and more deadpan in that semi-depressed way, but I don't mean to guilt him into sticking with his decision or make it sound as though I've taken offense to what he said. I really, really haven't. And if I were truly as young on the inside as I am on the outside, I would have hung up on him before saying anything. But… I do get it. And I'm just feeling a little down on myself, that's all. I don't deserve this. I know I'm not anything he expected or initially wanted. And I feel even worse, as if I'm taking this opportunity for granted by thinking this way, but I can't stop myself. It just sort of… comes in being. This feeling, these thoughts. And I think it's because I might actually…

Kurt's voice cuts off my thoughts over the silence ringing in my ear from his end of the line. "Dave, please don't think that way. I've been through a lot, yeah, but that doesn't mean I can't recognize real change when I see it, or change my mind on things. I… I know I said you weren't my type, and I said some other things I forget but know I regret because of how they must have hurt you, but understand that I was angry at and afraid of you then. But not anymore, all right? You… aren't the same person, Dave. And neither am I. I feel as though the dynamic has shifted for the better over the past several weeks."

Dumbly, I nod. "Yeah…"

"Hey, want to do something tomorrow? Just the pair of us? I know you like hockey, which includes ice skating, and there's that roller skating rink in town, which is nearly the same thing. Or we could go see a movie. What do you say?" he says, sounding as though he's both trying to cheer me up and, at the same time, benefit himself by getting his first real date with a guy. Tricky bastard; but I like it.

"Yeah, sure. Skating sounds like fun, actually. Will have to dig up my in-line roller-blades. Dunno where they are in that closet of mine, but they're probably somewhere at the bottom with all of my shoes and old ice skates. But you know how to roller-skate, right, Kurt?" I answer, feeling infinitely better.

"Of course. Would I have asked you otherwise? Although I'm a bit rusty. I haven't skated in years. And I don't know how to roller-blade, and I don't have a pair of skates; it's disgusting and unfashionable, but I'll have to borrow one of the forty-year-old rental skates."

I chuckle softly, so not to wake my parents. "Are you really implying that they haven't restocked their rental skates since the '70s, when roller-skating first made it big? That's ridiculous, Fancy, and you know it."

"You never know," he tells me very seriously, very darkly, and for a minute, I think he's totally dead-set on this, but without warning, he suddenly burst into wild laughter. "Oh, did I have you going? I'm sorry! Guess I'm a better actor than I thought."

I sputter for a second, but then chuckle lightly. "Yeah, you had me goin' there. I thought you were gonna go slaughter the roller rink employees for keeping old skates or something."

"Nah, I would never do something so drastic! And neither would they, I'm sure. Their shoes are probably only five to ten years old instead. Still, it will feel disgusting to me, and I'll have to bring my own decontaminating spray, but it's the best thing I have. I don't feel like going out and buying new skates for myself. I like fashion and spending money on clothes and accessories, but skates for merely one or two evenings? No way," he states logically, and I can hear the smile in his voice. It's nice to hear him like this; I'm really getting used to the sound of his voice and the looks on his face directed toward me when they aren't soaked in fear, anger, or hatred.

Now that almost everyone knows, I keep getting shit from people, but it's not so bad. I thought it would shatter my life and reputation, and it has fucked up the latter quite a bit, it's true, but my life? I have the whole rest of it to make things better, and it isn't even that bad right now. I know how bad it could have – would have – been, and I don't want to go back to that. I lost my life once already; I'm determined not to lose it again.

Out of nowhere, I yawn loudly.

"Dave, are you getting tired? I should let you go, shouldn't I? It's pretty late. You need your rest."

"So do you," I argue, my voice a little flatter. Dammit, I don't want to get all sleepy on him; I want to hear his voice more. His captivating, soft, lovely voice… (Great, now I sound all mushy. I blame the lack of sleep.)

"No, I really should. I've kept you up long enough. So… farewell, dearest David," he says with a laugh. "And let's go over the details in the morning. But I really do want to go out with you. I think we'll have fun. And hey, you can buy me a slushie at the rink," he jokes. "Goodnight."

"'Night."

We hang up, but ten minutes later, I'm tossing and turning. Sighing with a grunt laced in it, I roll over and grab my phone and call Kurt back.

"…Dave?" he mutters, sounding fully awake, still, but entirely confused.

"Now I can't sleep."

"What do you want me to do? Sing until you fall asleep, and let your cell automatically hang up on you when I notice you've stopped responding?" he giggles quietly, making it sound like the silliest, most unrealistic request in the world.

But… it actually sounds like a brilliant idea.

"Yeah, could you? That'd be awesome," I tell him.

He stops mid-giggle. "Whoa, wait. You… truly want me to lull you to sleep with my voice?" he clarifies in a softly startled voice.

"Um, yeah. That's what I said," I return with a smirk. "Why not? It sounds like a legit idea. I mean, my mom used to sing me to sleep when I was a kid. She stopped when I was, like, five years old, but it works, right? Some nights I even fall asleep with my iPod going. Music is just soothing like that."

"It is, I agree, but… you want me to sing?" he says, and I can't believe he's so skeptical and embarrassed-sounding. Does he think I'd really pull his leg over something like this? Does he not realize how fucking amazing his voice is? – Wait, no, he probably knows that. But still, why question it? "You already said you have your iPod… Why not use that?"

"Because I want to hear your voice instead, Kurt," I tell him honestly, and I immediately make a face at how… how husky and breathless I sound. I swear it's not about my thoughts from earlier, though; I just… I want… I lo-…

Suddenly, there's the sound of his voice clearly coming in over the phone, and at first I don't recognize the song the way he's singing it slowly and softly in that gentle singing voice of his. But as I pay attention to the lyrics and lean back on my bed, appreciating the sound, I recognize it: 'The World We Live In' by The Killers. It makes me wonder if Kurt listens to the band by choice or if it's something Finn likes, but either way, it's oddly soothing and I like how his voice sounds with the easy melody, oddly familiar even when slowed down to a lullaby.

Pretty soon, I'm getting drowsy as hell. My head starts nodding, eyes slipping closed, and I lean down further into my covers, head sinking onto my pillow like a cartoon anvil dropping down. I start drifting off, Kurt's voice swirling around in my head, merging with the fogginess and beginnings of dreams and loose thoughts.

Vaguely, I'm aware of Kurt noticing the lack of sound on my end, cutting off his singing and calling my name – "Dave? Dave…? Hey, are you still there? Are you asleep yet? …Dave?" And upon hearing his speaking voice again, I start thinking things like:

_Why hasn't the Glee Club done any Killers before?_

_Or Muse… that would sound cool, too…_

_I bet Kurt would like to sing Adam Lambert, come to think… of it…_

_Huh… I really love his voice…_

_He's so perfect… I really love him…_

_Kurt…_

– And then I'm vaguely aware of the sound of my cell phone dropping onto the floor and then beeping, signaling the end of the call. However, I'm too thick with that dark heaviness of sleep to move, too sluggish to roll over and retrieve my phone or call him back.

So I just lie there a second longer before I let sleep claim me.

.o0o.

A few days later, I explode. Minutely, but an outburst is an outburst, no matter how you dress it up or look at it.

Kurt's been real quiet towards me, and I can't take it anymore. So I lash out a little, right in the middle of Glee Club, a growl emitting from me before I stand up and take the plunge. "Dammit, why are you only giving me monosyllable answers? And why did you stand me up when we were supposed to go to the rink together the other day? God-fucking-dammit, talk to me, Hummel! Did I do something wrong?"

"No," he whispers, and he looks away, skin turning a blotchy pink over his milky-pale cheeks. "I'll talk to you about it after Glee. Please, sit back down, Karofsky."

And I frown at little at his distant tone and the use of my last name, but obey. Shuester seems unfazed, like always; the man never intervenes when he should. He tries to make us sort things out ourselves, only stopping it all when something physical breaks out. And even then, all he does is yell. I'm beginning to dislike Shue, him and his manwhorish ways.

Anyway, I wait after the club activity with my backpack strap in hand, slung over one shoulder, the books in it weighing a little heavy on my back as I shift my own weight from one foot to the other as I watch everybody file out of the choir room. Puckerman sends me a head-nod and a slightly smile, which I return. But my smile fades as soon as Kurt exits, head-down slightly, looking at his steps, hand clutching his shoulder bag.

I mimic his pace and lightly touch his shoulder for barely a moment, and he tenses under my touch. I don't know how, but this fraction of a moment wounds me more than being ignored for a would-have-been date. I wince inwardly, and outwardly, my brows furrow.

"I don't get it. What the fuck did I do?" I say lowly, and I hate myself for sounding so pained. "I thought you were going to give me a chance."

"I was. But I realized that we're already in too deep, and if we keep this up, one of us is going to get hurt," he retorts oddly, his voice thin as if on the verge of tears. But his face reveals nothing. It's wiped clean of emotion, and it scares me, because he's usually so expressive. What is he trying to do? Protect himself from me? But I haven't bullied him in so long… why is he being like this? So difficult?

"Kurt. Stop this, okay? Tell me what I did. I know you're mad at me for something; you're being a cold-shouldered bitch, so I must have done something just tell me what it is already, okay? Tell me and I'll fucking fix it!" I nearly shout, stopping dead in the hallway and staring him down, but he refuses to meet my eyes with his.

"I don't think you even realized you did it, so it would be pointless to bring it up. Can we just forget about this? I'm sorry I stood you up. But we just… can't do this."

"Why not? Is this about those threats I keep getting? Look, I'll take care of that, okay? No one will hurt you, and no one can even touch me. So it's fine if we date, got it?" I say, pleading and desperate and angry and hurt, and I hate sounding this way, it's so fucking pathetic. But I can't help it. Kurt does things to me, crazy things, utterly off-the-rocker insane things I never thought someone could bring out of me. It's always been him, too; ever since I can remember. He makes me this way – pathetic and insecure and fucking vulnerable – and my raw personality only intensifies it all.

"No, Dave… it's not just about that. Those things add to it a little, admittedly, but… B-but, I just… I can't…" and he sighs shakily, eyes blinking rapidly, but he still isn't looking at me.

"Kurt," I say firmly but gently, and take a step forward, my large mitts falling onto his narrow shoulders. I free one hand to take his chin and turn his face toward me. "Look at me. Be honest. You can't hide things from me, Hummel." And I mean it. He can't, not when he's so clearly holding back about something; his body language says it all.

He pulls away slightly, but he meets my gaze. And I never realized, but there's a lot more color in his eyes than only blue. His irises are mostly blue, it's true, but around his pupils there's flecks of green and even a little gold, and it's mesmerizing.

Kurt blinks tears from his eyes, lashes wetting but face remaining dry as he stares up at me, chin tilted upward only slightly to match our limited height difference. "David, I heard you. On the phone the other night, when I was singing to you. Before your phone fell and I hung up… you… you mumbled something. Wh-whispered… that you loved me."

And he's embarrassed and almost hurt, and he's timid and sighing out with a careful breath, and his eyes are losing their connection with mine again.

I release him immediately. Had I really said that? I know I thought it, just a little bit, briefly, before I fell asleep… but did I mean it? And if I do, why is this a problem? Why is he so afraid of me being in love with him?

"Kurt –" I try, but he shakes his head and steps backwards, finally turning on his heel and dashing down the hallway, finally leaving out through the doors into the cold weather.

Dammit.

Dammit!

"Dammit, dammit, dammit!" I curse loudly, pivoting on the pads of my sneakers to kick and slap at a few nearby lockers.

Suddenly, Finn appears, talking idly with Rachel, and both stopping when they see me lashing out on the defenseless metal.

"…Dave?" Rachel tries first, flitting over to my side and lightly touching my arm. I turn and face her, and it isn't until she gasps and exclaims, "You're crying!" that I realize it's true. I am crying.

"Dude… Are you all right?" Finn poses with a confused frown (confused being, like, his default expression).

I sniff and wipe at my eyes. "'M fine," I lie. "'S nothing."

"Dave Karofsky in tears? That isn't 'nothing,'" Rachel corrects sternly, scolding me with her hands on her hips. Her facial expression melts, though, as she looks into my eyes. "Your eyes look greener when you cry, but browner when you're mad. I never noticed until now," she says, as if that's supposed to make me feel better. She forces a smile. "Hey. Want me to treat you to a slushie at the 7-Eleven nearby? Don't worry, it won't wind up in your face. I wouldn't seek payback when you're like this," she teases, because we both know we're past the payback state. No one in Glee wants to get back at me anymore.

"Yeah. I'll come, too," Finn offers, signature lopsided smile in place. I laugh a little; mostly at myself, because the epic singing couple is showing me pity. And because I remember how I used to have a small kiddy-crush on Finn in fifth grade, even before I understood what my feelings meant. All I new back then was that I liked his weird smile, and that I felt really hurt when he made fun of my bodily changes.

"Sure, whatever," I agree listlessly, and I'm positive that Berry is planning on pumping information out of me about why I was all choked up and freaking out. Which is both like and unlike me, so as much as I want to protest, I know she's right in prodding me for info on what happened. It's not like I flip out like that everyday, but I am prone to, which can be cause for concern, I guess. I dunno. Sometimes I just wonder why people even bother with me.

Especially Kurt.

.o0o.

It takes about forty-five minutes until Rachel makes me crack. I resolved to try and resist telling her, but the bitch is persistent and sneaky and utterly generous when she wants to be. So I caved. With Finn – the stepbrother of the cause of my tears – unfortunately as my witness, I told them.

It felt so strange, confessing in the heated, frustrated, fed-up way I did, but I spilled it all. My guts were tossed into the confines of Rachel's car as we sat in the 7-Eleven parking lot, sipping slushies, and talking. I told them both how close Kurt and I have been getting. How he was giving me a chance. How I love him. How he freaked out about it and won't tell me why, only that one of us will get hurt or some bullshit. And how I want him more than anything else in the world. And how I don't even know why, or if this is like real love or not, and yet it just is, and I feel it, and I can't hide it.

And they just sat there, listening. Accepting. And it was fucking bizarre.

Once I'm finished, Rachel smiles brightly at me, then offers to get me a refill. I decline. She simply nods sweetly, understandingly. "Thanks for telling us all this, Dave."

"Yeah, man… I mean, that's some heavy shit. I knew about the dangerous stuff, but all the mushy stuff? Not so in-the-know about. Why didn't Kurt say anything to me? He's my brother now or whatever. Doesn't he trust me?"

I snort my disagreement. "That's not it at all, and you know it, Hudson. Kurt trusts you. But I'm his former bully. How do you think he thought you'd react if you found out he was even thinking of dating me? I guess it all makes sense, now," I sigh as I comb a hand through my hair and lick my dry lips, "He's just… scared all over again. Can't say I blame him."

"What? No, Dave, don't think like that," reprimands Rachel, softly but sturdily. The slender brunette brings s cherry smile on her face. "Know what I do when I start to feel down about myself? I look at a star. It reminds me of what I used to wish on as a kid, what I want to become, and everything fiery and bright in the universe. It makes me remember what I'm doing, why I'm here, who I am. It seems a little silly, and it won't work for you, but the principle can be reapplied in a different way. What's one thing you love that never gets you down? One thing that reminds you of your childhood or current dreams, something that makes you think of yourself in a more positive light?"

I think for a second, but that's all it winds up being; a second. Within that second, a small smile touches my lips but doesn't reach my eyes, and I tell her in a stable voice, "Hockey. I wanted to be a pro hockey player as a kid, ever since my dad took me to a Blackhawks game in Chicago when we went to visit my aunt and uncle one Christmas break. And football is cool and all, but I miss hockey. I like the ice, the pain, the way I can glide around. It makes me remember that everything around me is real, intense, and full of life. Meaning. All me."

It doesn't quite make sense, and during the conversation, Finn is utterly lost. But Rachel gets it. She grins really broad and goes as far to lean forward and give me a brief hug; she smells like cherries and blueberries and something sugary, like honey, and something soapy, like shampoo. And then she's back by Finn again, and I'm very, very distantly wondering what Kurt smells like up close, because I've never dared get close enough to really inhale or simply notice, like I just had with Berry.

I dunno why, but I feel so comfortable with Rachel. She gets me, even though she's a bit of a nutcase at times. Maybe it's her gay dads? Maybe she's secretly compassionate and not always so self-centered? Whatever. I like it. It makes me feel better, even if I refuse to admit this to her.

"So, are we, like, done here? It's getting kind of late. I should be home for dinner soon," Finn breaks in, and I actually laugh a little instead of get tweaked at him for shattering the moment. He's right; we all should be getting home to our families. It's just what should be.

"Yeah, we're done here. Just… don' say anything to Kurt, okay? I want to confront him myself. Talk to him more on my own. That's reasonable, right?"

"Absolutely," Rachel agrees, and nudges her boyfriend with her elbow to force him to nod in agreement.

.o0o.

I decide to visit Kurt at his home. I know he won't answer my calls if I try, and I know the texts will be the same. So I show up there, not at all paying any attention to the vehicle down the street lurking behind; it must be looking for a house or something. I know I drive slowly when I'm looking for a new address; like I did just minutes ago, in fact. I simply knock on the door, wait, and find Burt Hummel at the door.

The mechanic quirks a brow at me, smiling, posing the question of who I am. I mention my name, and he instantly shows recognition in his eyes. He mentions how he knows my dad, mentions how Kurt has talked about me before ("H-he has?" I mutter, mouth dry and voice weak with surprise and embarrassment), and offers to let me inside. But I shake my head, foolish me, and instead ask if Kurt can just come out and talk to me. It'll be quick.

_It'll be quick._

Kurt steps out, closing the door behind him. He hisses without a scrap of malice but every last drop of panic or annoyance, "Just what are you doing here?"

I glance down at my feet before awkwardly producing the flowers I have behind my back. I feel really, really retarded, but I think he might like flowers. Right?

Kurt's face goes from pleasantly startled to suspicious in five point three seconds flat. He accepts the small bouquet of baby's breath and blue carnations and raises them to his nose instinctively while his eyes narrow in suspicion. "What are these for?' he inquires quietly.

"I don't know why you're so afraid of me liking you as much as I do, but it's not a bad thing. I promise, as long as I'm around, nothing bad will happen, okay? I won't let anyone be homophobic against you anymore. I won't break your heart. And if you don't want me, it's okay, because I won't hold a grudge or stalk you or anything. I'm not like that anymore, any of it. So… I guess what I'm here for… is to know if you'll still give me that chance, or if this is really it?" I implore, urging him to answer.

Kurt opens his mouth, and he looks like he's about to either smile or cry, but the good kind of cry, and he's about to agree, but then…

Then, the next thing I know, I'm having an out-of-body experience, watching as everything moves slowly, painfully slowly, and is too loud and too painful too fast.

Kurt's open mouth becomes a gape of horror, and his words a scream. His eyes widen, the tears come, and he's rushing to my side, the flowers dropped and forgotten on his front stoop, petals scattered in splattered blood.

I hear myself choking, gasping, and I can feel the pain so intensely it's nothing but flame; fire, fire, all throughout my body, as if I were a burning log of wood and the flames were eating me alive, nibbling at the edges of raw flesh and seeping into my organs and my bones.

I hear men cackling, a car speeding up and screeching away, and Mr. Hummel racing out of the front door, yelling his head off, starting to realize what happened and turning sharply to race down the street to at least catch a glimpse of the license plate, I suspect.

But this is all a blur to me, nothing but sounds gathering and passing in and out of a collective mist, a haze over my slowing brain.

"Dave, oh my God, David, no, please, please no… Y-you can't just… not like this…! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry; I didn't want to date you because I was afraid I'd fall in love with you too hard and fast to ever let you go because it's already started to become that, and, a-and I'm so… s-so sorry… I-I don't… want you to go, not like this, p-please, no, I just… I need you to stay, okay? Oh God, if there is one, if He really does exist… let Him save you! You don't… you don't deserve this, they - _those bastards_ – they were aiming for me, I just know it, o-or maybe _both_ of us, oh _God_ …"

Kurt is babbling, nonsensical, nearly indecipherable, but I can hear it. I can hear every last word trickle down through the growing haze, the increasing pitch blackness, and I think of two things at once: one, that Kurt returns my feelings after all, at least in part. And two, that I bet Strando – probably not Az, actually, since we were pals for the most part, we have history – but someone must have leaked, and told some homophobic group? Gang? Whatever… that I was gay. Or that Kurt was gay. Or what we were gay together. Any way you look at it, this is a hate-crime, this is me dying again, and all so fast, so soon, right when I had him, right when Kurt was within my grasp, things about to change for what I hoped was the better…

And now the blackness, that pure, bubbling, syrupy-liquid darkness is rising up again, swallowing me as whole as a snake takes a rat.

And then I'm just… gone.

* * *

**ALTERNATE SCENE BONUS: HOW THE TEXT MESSAGES COULD HAVE WENT, BUT DIDN'T, BECAUSE I REALIZED MY MISTAKE.**

_'What about you? Anything worth sharing? –Dave.'_

_'Yeah, there's one thing… Know how I'm texting you right now, and so late at night, too? Well, it's because… I had a short dream, and you were in it. And when I woke up, I couldn't get back to sleep because of it. Because then I was solely thinking about_ you _. –Kurt.'_

My breathing literally stops dead in my lungs. They deflate with a sudden tug in my chest, my heart sputtering a little as I choke on a gasp. Oh God, oh God, ohGod ohGod… _Please_ tell me he isn't referring to a wet dream or something. Because if he somehow is, I might just die. Literally have a heart attack and never rise again (unless I'm a zombie, of course). Because that would just be…

_Unbearable,_ in that insta-boner way.

With shaky fingers and newly re-inflated lungs, I take in a deep breath and text back, _'What kind of dream was it? –Dave.'_

_'You know what kind. And while I've honestly only had such a dream a few times – once with Finn in it back when I was crushing on him, another with Artie for some reason, and twice with Puck, oddly enough – I hadn't expected you to be a star of one anytime soon. But there you were, and Blaine was the one who put you up to it via instant messenger (yeah, I don't know). And… things happened, then I woke up. You trouble me greatly, David Karofsky. –Kurt, who is embarrassed now.'_

_I can't do this. I really can't. This boy tortures me, and he fucking knows it. Prissy bastard; he must get his kicks out of sexually arousing me at the worst times possible and makes the sexual frustration only grow as he plays it off so casual, so aloof, as if this gay talk shit comes naturally to him. And fuck Hummel, because I bet it_ does _come naturally to him!_ I think hastily, hazily.

* * *

* * *

**A/N: That's all you guys get for now! Hope this satisfied all your cravings, you hound dogs. I STILL LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH. M'kay? M'kay. Bye now. AND REVIEW PLEASE, because I really gave you a lot this time around; about 8,000+ words worth, so... yeah.**


	5. Chapter 5

_I first think,_

_Haha, I died again. It'd be cool if I were like Kenny from South Park,_

_And I could totally just wake back up in my bed,_

_Good as new,_

_And no one remembers a thing._

_And then I think:_

_WHOA HOLY HELL, I HAVE THOUGHTS!_

_And I realize in a dim sort of way_

_That I must have lived through the gunshot,_

_Or…_

_Or I died again, and I'm now in a different – or the same? – time period as I woke up in before._

My eyes fly open at the sound of my alarm going off. It's my high school alarm clock, so that's at least familiar. I rise from my bed and stretch.

I hear my mother's voice. "Davey? Come on, sleepy head, that alarm's gone off five times already! Do you seriously want to be this tardy on your first day of high school?"

I stop mid-stretch to stare blankly at where she stands in the doorway of my bedroom, a hand to her chest to keep her robe closed. Her legs still glisten with some leftover lotion mixed with shower water where they poke out of the bottom of her robe, supporting her weight.

The… first day of high school? What the fuck?

I hope out of bed and race to a mirror, my mother smiling ruefully at me. I check my face; yup. Some acne, more baby chub. I turn and find my mother facing me, and I'm shorter than her. Not by much, but I'm supposed to be a lot taller.

"What's the matter, Davey?" she says gently, knowingly. "You look like you've either seen the ghost of Elvis Presley or you've just woken up in someone else's body."

And the way she says it reminds me of something she said to me before, during my first round of a second chance (which makes this the second round of a second chance? Or just… a general third chance?). Does she…?

"Mom, what do you know?" I say, and she sighs.

"Depends on what you do, David," she says, utterly seriously suddenly. "Do you feel different? Sick? Or… _reborn?_ Because you're acting strangely."

And I stare at her for a full minute before straightening my barely fourteen-year-old body up to its full height. "The latter," I say as intelligently as I can. "Mom, I know you know something. And I know it's not normal to suddenly wake up after death and find yourself in your body of a younger age than you were before; so spill the beans, Mom. Tell me whatever you know."

She grins. "I thought you'd never ask." She gestures down the hallway toward the kitchen. "Shall we? I can make you breakfast and explain a few things before you have to rush off to school. I'll even drive you so that we can talk more in the car."

"Okay," I agree. "Okay."

My mom nods once or twice, and as we enter the kitchen, she immediately gets working on making some scrambled eggs with toast. I sit down at the table, feeling a little like I'm being babied. Inside I'm still a grown man; being sixteen for a while hasn't changed that. Why am I younger this time around? Why is there another time around? I don't understand.

"Salt and pepper both, right?" my mom hums, and I nod dumbly in response. She smiles at me as she adds the spices to the eggs and slides the steaming yellow food onto a plate. She adds the toast, butters it, and hands me some jam in a jar with a knife sticking out of it as soon as she places the plate in front of me. "Would you like something to drink, baby?"

"OJ," I reply, still feeling a little uneasy. I'm not so sure I want to eat anything, actually. I feel a little sick to my stomach about all of this.

"Here you are," she says, and as soon as the glass makes a clattering noise onto the table, she sits down opposite me and places her elbows on the table, her fingers laces together, her mouth leaning to just barely press against the side of her hands. "So. I suspect you want some answers, baby. Well, ask the questions, and I'll give them to you."

"I jump in time every time I die. And each time is different, a different age or part of something I've done." It's a statement with a question implied. She nods, catching on.

"Not always with death, sweetie," she correct mildly, "Sometimes you will skip in time with something as shocking as a painful wound, or sometimes you'll be on the brink of death and you'll switch time periods. It's just what happens, that's all. And each time, a new reality is created, but ultimately, each version is a piece of your life, because there's always the same starting and end points. It's just a matter of which decisions you make to get to that end point," she relays with ease, reaching over and snatching a bite of egg, using her fingers to pop it into her mouth.

I stare, gaping, and when I finally get my jaw closed, I find the words. "So… this is all meant to happen in one way or another? There's nothing I can do?"

She shakes her head. "Not all of it. You still make the choices, David. And where they lead you is entirely discretionary. You may be meant to die for real any time you do die, but I highly doubt you will any time soon. In my opinion, this is all like a test: God is giving you do-overs, as many as you need, until you can get things right, until you can find your 'happy ending.' But that's just my religious hope speaking. I could be wrong; I'm only human, after all." And my mom shakes her head, smiling slightly.

I sigh, shaking my own head. "I don't get it. How do you know all this?"

"Because," she says simply, "I've been through it." Mom points at a half-slice of toast. "You gonna eat that?"

I shake my head, utterly confounded this time. "Whoa. Wait. Hold up a sec, Ma. You've been through this?"

"Mhmm. Of course. How else would I know anything?" she says with a shrug, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. "I don't know how many people go through it – they probably keep it a secret to themselves because it's outlandish and from something totally sci-fi, but it's the truth. I've gone through it. It may be genetics that you are, too, or it could be Fate or God or whatever. I don't pretend to know everything. But sweetie, if you're given these chances, I say take them. Don't think about regrets. Act like you'll have these chances forever. Make the right choices, but don't be dramatic when you make the wrong ones. Sound reasonable?"

And really, my mother has never been a more perplexing person. I blow air out my mouth, exercise my eyebrows for a moment, then finally take a sip of orange juice and eat some of my breakfast. "This is all really trippy. And complicated. I dunno if I can take it."

"I didn't think I could, either – especially once when giving birth to you, I hopped forward in time to when you were three years old – but you get used to it. And eventually, it stops all together, because you're finally on the correct path. This is my ninth hop, did you know that? And I haven't hopped since. It took me nine tries in life to get things settled, David. Let's see you do better," she tells me, reaching across the table to place her hand over my empty one, my other hand stilling halfway to my mouth, a bite of egg on my fork.

I nod, setting the fork down and squeezing her hand while simultaneously covering it up with my other hand. Even at fourteen, my hands are pretty big; they completely engulf hers. My father is a big man, and my mother is a small woman; how they got me is a mystery. I'm a bit like my dad, but I don't know how someone like my mother spawned me.

Laughing now, I realize that this isn't so bad. "Hey, if I jump again, will we have to have this conversation all over? 'Cause I hate re-hearing things I already know about."

She laughs, too. "Oh no, sweetie, I highly doubt that. Things like this only come once. You won't need to talk to me again about it if you don't want to. But know that I'll always be aware of your condition, okay? I know how it is, how it feels, and I'm always here if you need me. Your father is aware of it, too, but it hasn't happened to him. He believes me, though. He says that it happened to his sister, and that he couldn't believe it, but found that it's real, because she proved it to him by telling him exactly what would happen one day, and when that day came, it did happen. Because some things are constants, like the people you meet or certain actions you will do or who you will hate and who you will love. It's all… relevant to what makes your life your life, with or without multiple realities."

"…Holy fuck, Mom. Since when did you become such a philosophical person? You're kind of freaking me out. I feel like I'm reading a book about the butterfly effect or something." I tell her with a wary smile on my lips.

"Watch your tongue, David, and finish your breakfast. You still need to clean that mess of hair on your head with a quick shower before I take you anywhere. Got me?" she says, instantly reverting back into Mothering Mode, and I can tell this conversation is over, and furthermore, that she doesn't want to own up to being philosophical or a know-it-all, even though I know it boosts her ego to be considered as such.

"Fine, fine; I'm going, I'm going," I say reluctantly, shoveling food down my throat, burping loudly, and shuffling off to the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, I'm sitting in my first period class, staring at the board as I realize sharply that this is the first day of high school, the day I made so many wrong choices the first time around.

I want to be in hockey again, I really do, but I don't want to make friends with anyone. I don't want to be a bully. I don't want Kurt Hummel to hate me, because I realize with a flip of my stomach that I'm definitely in love with him, and I don't want to fuck shit up. I need him in my life – and if what my mother said is true, then this is practically an undeniable fact – and I can't go dying on him or be his tormentor or anything else that's happened before. I just _can't._

So what should I do today? Glee Club won't officially start up until next year, at least not with the people it had when I knew it. And come to think of it, Kurt won't be out of the closet until next year… and Azimio. He's been my friend for a while, but in high school, this year, this is when we become bullies.

And… and I can stop that. I can even come out to him and see if I can get him on my side; use the tender, imbalanced friendship we have right now as something build on. I can maybe make him less homophobic, find a way to solidify our relationship into a real friendship instead of the lame, shallow, jock-oriented one we have now. I can have him get used to me, the real me, the idea of what I represent, in a manner of speaking.

It sounds plausible, anyway. And I think it's worth a shot.

.o0o.

I don't see Hummel until lunch. He's dressed all fancy as usual, although toned down slightly, reduced to neutral colors: chocolate slacks, a creamy button-down long-sleeved shirt, chocolate vest, coppery tie, coppery shoes, coppery belt. And always the flawlessly coiffed hair.

My eyes shamelessly scan his body up and down from a distance, watching as he walks down the lunch line, getting his usual low-carb foods; Jell-O, a slice of the thin-crust spinach pizza our school makes sometimes, and some carrots with a small carton of white milk.

Oh, my God. Why, even when he looks so much more baby-faced and awkward in that freshman-way, am I still crushing on him so hard?

"Hey, man!" a booming voice says cheerfully, a hand clamping down on my shoulder. I jump where I stand, lunch tray in hand, shake my head to clear it, and offer a smile at Azimio.

"Hey yourself," I say, and follow him over to a table with some other freshman from our peewee football team from middle school.

"This is awesome, right? High school is so cool! I already have a senior friend, dude. She's hot. Maybe when her boyfriend is done with her, I can have her," he grins. "Am I right?"

I laugh lightly, but noticeably uncomfortably. I shift in my seat at the lunch table, and I really don't like this. Now that I know what it can be like to be out, and even though there's all this fear building up inside of me because of rejection and possibly getting shot again if the wrong person finds out… I just can't do it. I can't pretend like I did for so long before. The first time around, it took me forever to come out. And I hated all the acting. I came to resent each day, and resent myself.

So if I'm back this early into my life, then I'm going to be a little insane. Dying twice will do that to you, anyway.

"Az, you can have her. And any girl for that matter. And I'll be rooting you on, dude, but I ain't gonna keep lying to your face. I won't say when I figured it out –" because really, time is messed up now, since I never truly figured out my sexuality until sophomore year, which is next year in this 'reality' "– but I'm gay, dude."

My best friend stares at me for a full moment, then the other guys at the table start laughing. "Good one, Karofsky! That's hilarious. But that's totally not true, right, man? I mean, you like pussy, right?" one of the guys across from me says, and he looks a tad worried. As well he should be, 'cause it's true.

Az has the same face. But he knows what I look like when I tell the truth, and what I look like when I lie. An incident that ended with detention for both of us in seventh grade proved that, since I had to lie for him, but later told the truth to his parents to help spare him worse punishment. I had his back all the time. And as I look right back at him, I need him to have my back, too. Just once. Azimio can be an asshole sometimes – he disses Glee a lot, and he was initially the one to suggest going after Kurt (and I agreed because… well) – but we have had tons of good moments together, as friends, even before this. Before high school. Before me coming out to these jerks, but mostly to Az.

"No man, he's serious," Azimio grumbles, and he glances back between the others and me. "Leave."

"What? Dude, we're eating here."

"I said go!" Az barks, because he's always had a temper, just like me. And soon everyone around us is scrambling up with their trays and skittering off to another table. Az watches them go, then he looks back at me and shifts slightly in his spot. "Dude… is this for real? Are you, like, telling me that you're a fag? No lies?"

"It's the God's honest truth, Az," I say lowly, dead serious. I stare him down, and I hate how much younger my voice sounds at fourteen. This is such a horrible awkward age; I hate it. I'm even shorter than I was at sixteen, too; by a good three or four inches, even. "I'm as queer as they come."

"S-since when?" Az hurls at me, sounding more confused than angry. And I'm glad, because I'd hate to see him get as hateful as he had last time, when he devastated my garage and I called him on it. "Did someone, like, turn you?"

I jerk back in disgust. " _Turn_ me? Dude, this isn't vampirism. Gays don't 'convert' each other, okay? I mean, yeah, there's this porno thing called 'broke straight guys,' but everyone knows that's all acting people are paid to do. Or whatever. Point is, I was born like this, man. I just didn't realize it until… recently." I clear my throat a little, feeling kind of freed and empowered, but also completely exposed and raw with this strange ache as I continue onward with my small speech. "I'm gay, okay? And the whole school will probably know it by tomorrow thanks to those dickwads you shooed away hearing me say it. But I don't care. People can accept it or leave me the fuck alone, because I swear I'll sick the Fury on their asses if they try and harass me about it."

Azimio blinks and stares for a second, eyebrows rising on his round face before he blows air out his mouth, leaning back, and shakes his head. "Well fuck me. Okay, dude. Okay. I get it. And… while I'm kinda freaked out by you right now, and I kinda don't want you to touch me ever again, I… well, you're my hommie, you know? I can't just ditch you because you're a fag or whatever. You're still my friend, and – and don't repeat this, 'cause I swear I'll knock yo teeth in – I really don't have that many friends yet. McKinley's a fucking bitch."

I relax, not realizing I had been sitting on edge for his response until the tension dissipates suddenly. "Thanks, man. 'S cool. I get it. And you're being cooler about this than I thought."

"Well fuck man, I don't want your fist in my face if I say what I kind of want to say, but at the same time, I don't want to say it anyway, 'cause even I disagree with it. You're my friend, dude. We've been friends since, like, what, fifth grade? Or something? I dunno. I just… don't think it'd be cool to lose a friend over this. As long as you don't hit on me, I'm good."

I laugh out of both humor and relief. "No offense, Azzy, but you're so not my type. I got my eyes on somebody else."

He grins slightly. "Okay, I'm a lot grossed out, but still cool. And uh, I'll play along. Who's got your eye? Maybe I can help you two hook up? So long as he's gay too, I guess."

"No," I tell him, "I don't want your help, but thanks anyway. I don't even think in want to try anything just yet. I know he's gay, though, so that helps. But he's not out of the closet yet, you know? And 'fore you ask, I know he's gay 'cause he told me," in another lifetime, but still. "I'll take things at my own pace with him, you know? Get to be his friend first, if I can. Maybe worm my way into his life and then ask him out."

"Sounds like a plan, dude. I know some guys who do that with chicks; it works, even if it takes a while to get laid. But I bet you're not worried about that, huh? Probably not even ready for it; I mean, last time I checked, you were pretty shaky with gay stuff."

"Yeah," I admit slowly, "That's true. I've just… always been afraid of it because I knew, deep down, that I was, y'know, a homo. And it sucks, too, because I know that part of the fear comes from how others will react. But you know what? I know how others will react, because it's always the same. And I know though, too, that things will be different outside of high school. So if I can tough it out now, I can take on anything later."

Azzy nods, slowly wrapping his mind around it, then becomes a bit enthused with a slight furrowing of his brows. "Yeah. You know what? _Yeah!_ You're so right, man. Fuck the world, you just gotta be you. I mean, you've never done anything against me before, so why doubt? 'Cause I had some doubt for a minute there, not gonna lie. But you know, man, you a'ight. You got things figured. You're, like, sure of yourself, and that's awesome. You have more balls than me, Karofsky, and I respect that."

I'm feeling slightly more confident now that I know I have Az on my side. He's never been that bad of a guy up until that low point last time around. He's especially not bad at this age, now, in freshman year. He only become more homophobic the following year when he found out one of his cousins was gay. And he's always disliked singing and dancing (basically anything show choir) because he's just jealous that he doesn't have either talent. I, on the other hand, always used to put down my talents and thought I wasn't good enough and always worried way too much about what others thought of me to do Glee, but I always wanted to. I always liked it. I sing in the shower and dance alone in my room (when nobody's home) all the time.

And now that I'm partially out but still have one friends, I need to sort out another matter: getting around to doing the things I want, finding out what to do for the things I need, and most of all, figure out when I should do them. My mom said that some events are meant to happen no matter what, but that others can be changed or corrected. Well, I'm going to correct my bullying; I won't slushie a soul. I won't body-check Hummel into lockers. And I definitely am not going to make any homophobic insults or toss any slurs out there.

Instead, I'm going to bear the burden. This time, I'm going to be the out gay, I'm going to join the Glee Club, and I'm going to try and be all the things I feared and hated before out of ignorance, jealousy, and shallowness. I won't be shallow. Fuck that. I'm going to forget what all the idiots here at McKinley think and I'm just gonna be myself. Keep my grades up, not letting them fall; and only joining hockey or football because I want to play, not because I want to be popular. Sure, being gay is going to screw that up; the teammates will hate me, and until we get Bieste, things are gonna be awful coaching-wise, but you know what? It'll all be worth it if I can find that "happy ending," that "destiny," the outcome I'm meant to have.

It won't be perfect, I know, but I'm going to sure as hell try.

Because for all I know, this is still unreal. A trick, a dream, a coma-induced hallucination. Whatever. I still fear that, because the last thing of my usual life that I remember is going over a bridge in my car while driving intoxicated. And this could be fake; because of Kurt having that dream about me doing the same thing is just too coincidental.

But I don't care, not right now. Because right now, this is what I know. This is my life. I'm back in my freshman year of high school, and there's the opportunity to switch things around. And I'm going to take it, damn it.

.o0o.

I run into Kurt for the first real time after it's been about a month into the school year. I didn't mean to; I was only looking out for myself, which is why I did, but… I collide with him in the library as I turned a corner from one aisle to another, unable to see him rounding the same corner from the other side of the bookcase until it's too late.

He smack foreheads – his nose in a magazine, mine in a book for research for school – and wind up on the carpeted floor lying atop of one another. Kurt's half in my lap, half sprawled out against the corner of the shelving unit and I'm just blinking up at the ceiling, trying to disengage myself from his quickly before I start blushing like mad and give myself away.

Kurt's the first to say something, though. He squeaked during the fall, and now he's a blotchy red and standing up in a hurry, gazing down at me, saying, "Hey! Watch where you're walking; I think you scuffed up my Doc Martins!"

The only things I can think of that can get scuffed up are shoes, so I assume he means the boots he's wearing. They're pretty awesome; combat-looking, matching the slightly military-themed outfit he has going on, all designer labels or rip-offs I assume. Whatever he could get his hands on. And he looks damn good, but I have to tear my eyes away and stand up myself before I'm caught gaping.

"Sorry, dude," I say as I retrieve my fallen book, straightening out some of the bent pages from how it fell open and against the hard floor. Carpet or not, it's like hitting ice, but without the nice hockey gear to soften the blow.

"Yeah, well. Just be careful. These Martins probably cost more than your entire outfit," Kurt says, gesturing to my entire body. I glance down at my polo and jeans and tennis shoes and shrug.

"You're probably right," I say, trying not to take offense or become half as irritated outwardly as I am inwardly. "I got these clothes at Target. Your shoes probably were from someplace at the mall, or bought online. Still, I am sorry, okay? No need to freak out on me. Your shoes can be shined if you're so worried about it."

He sniffs indignantly, clearly in bitch-mode, but the mode is waning. He exhales loudly, plucks his glossy gossip rag off the floor, and tucks it under his arm. "I suppose I'm a bit sorry too, then. I didn't mean to 'freak.' I just… have a lot on my mind."

I'm tempted to ask him if he wants to vent to me, but who am I kidding? At this point, we're still strangers. Well, I'm a stranger to him at least. He probably doesn't even know who I am.

"That's all right. I mean, plenty of people get stressed out in high school, especially in the beginning," I offer with a shrug, trying to relate to him if I can. Small talk.

"It's not just that, although I do admit that I've been under a bit more stress lately. I don't think I'm adjusting well in high school," he sighs dramatically, and he moves to a nearby chair at one of the rectangular tables in the back of the library.

I make a gesture to the chair across from him, asking him permission to join him. He nods his consent, and I take a seat. I lean back and cross my arms over my chest. "So. You gonna rant a little at me, or just go back to reading your magazine?"

"I don't know," he says listlessly, and idly tosses the pile of shiny paper onto the table's surface. "Frankly, I don't know half of the things I'm doing any longer, save for my incredible fashion sense. But, aside from that… Hell, I don't even know why I'm talking to you. You're Karofsky, aren't you? You were in the peewee hockey and football teams in middle school. I've seen you in the yearbooks."

"Yeah, that's me," I say with a smile, a little overly gleeful that he's aware of who I am. "And you're Kurt Hummel." I don't tell him that I know his name because I've had a crush on him since seventh grade, or that I've already somewhat grown up with him in another part of my life. He doesn't need all the details.

"Yes, how did you know?" he poses with an air of surprise.

"Um… your dad. Yeah. My old man took the car into the shop a little while back and I went with him, and when my dad said that I went to McKinley, your dad mentioned you." It's the best lie I can think of to explain how I know his name. I mean, I've been in his class before, but he won't remember.

"Oh. Makes sense, I suppose." He shrugs. Then, his demeanor shifts as he clears his throat and adjusts his seating. "If you don't mind my asking… are the rumors about you true? I've heard some people murmur a few things, and…"

"What, that I'm gay?" I say, expression a little tweaked and a little reluctant, but overall honest. I sigh and scrub my forehead with pressured fingertips for a second. Leaning back up, I confess, "Yeah. Yeah, it's true. I made the rumors myself, in a way. Told some 'friends' of mine," I say in air quotes, "And they spread it around."

"Don't… don't you get harassed for it?" he whispers, and I know precisely why he's asking. He's not out yet, but people suspect him because of the way he speaks and dresses, and they've already begun teasing, and he's afraid it will only get worse if they knew for a fact that he's precisely what they accuse him of, what he must deny being.

"Are you kidding me? Every single fuckin' day," I scowl, but notice the slight fear on his face – something I just never want to see there again, especially not because of me – and wipe my face clean. "But… I deal, y'know? I got brawn. I'm just about as big as all the guys who try to mess with me, so I can fight back. And I have a friend to back me up, too. So it's tough, yeah, but I was tired of faking. Tired of lying. So I gave up and came out."

"A-aren't you…" he struggles, and I know it's because even someone as proud as Kurt Hummel is still in the closet at age fourteen, and isn't sure what to do with himself. "I mean, aren't your parents disappointed in you? Aren't you worried some severe homophobes might come after you?"

I shake my head. "My parents know and while my dad was unsure about it at first, he still loves me. I was scared shitless that he wouldn't, but I've always been his son, always will be, and he knows that. And my mom apparently already suspected it of me, since I never show any interest in girls, even though I'm fourteen-going-on-fifteen and plenty of guys already started dating girls like a year ago." I wince. "As for that last bit… well. I have my parents on my side, and that should be protection enough for now. Kids at school will always be douchebags, but never very dangerous. If they key my car or spray-paint my locker or slushie me or try to lock me in a porta-potty, I can take it."

"You're very courageous," he murmurs, a little awestruck, his eyes watery and large and one hand pressing over his collarbones.

I bite my tongue from saying, 'I learned it from you,' because he wouldn't know, and it'd be downright creepy. But it's the truth; he might have gotten some text from that Blaine guy about courage – I saw it in his locker before, and I know that's what he must have been smiling at before I smacked his phone out of his hands that first precious, horrible time – but I don't think he ever needed it. He thought he wanted courage, but he didn't need it at all. He's always been the most courageous person I've known.

In lieu of that, I state simply, "Not really, but I'm trying. I'm learning and I'm trying. And that's a start, right?"

"Right," he says, and then he immediately comes to some realization or another. He leaps to his feet, snatching his magazine off the table and scurrying out of the library with a curt, "Thanks! I'll see you later," being tossed over his shoulder.

I don't quite know what had just happened here, but I do know that I finally got to talk to him again and it felt great. Who knows? Maybe we can be friends this time around instead of enemies.


	6. Chapter 6

_I'm beginning to think_

_That it was a HUGE mistake_

_To come out of the closet_

_On the first day of high school._

_It's been a couple months in, now,_

_And I have my grades going smoothly_

_And I haven't joined a single sport because of all of the torment the jocks keep sending my way_

_And my parents are a little flustered but otherwise supportive of me_

_And things seem to be going okay, because Kurt now sits with me at lunch,_

_Or, rather, I sit with him and his friends, Tina and Mercedes…_

_I can't help but feel as though I'm suffocating._

_It's hard enough being in love with someone who doesn't even know it,_

_Or would even know why since we're just becoming friends (sort of),_

_Or would even reciprocate because I'm just so…_

_And there's the problem, isn't it?_

_I still have these dumb low-self-esteem issues,_

_And they aren't being helped any by the weekly slushie facials that come my way –_

_Fuck, I almost forgot what it feels like, ever since that first time when the football team was forced to join Glee Club in my junior year –_

_And I keep getting these anonymous calls to my house, aimed toward my dad, about me being gay._

_And it's just so much_

_That I almost can't take it_

_But I know that I deserve it_

_Because this must be how Kurt felt for nearly two years_

_Before he transferred to Dalton during my first try at life._

_So now…_

_Now, I'm just standing in the shower_

_Letting these thoughts trickle down and out of my head like the water above me into the drain,_

_And all I can picture is:_

_What if, what if, what if, what if –_

_A constant mantra,_

_Wondering what would have happened if I hadn't tried this,_

_Hadn't come out so quickly,_

_Hadn't gotten so frustrated and fed up that I did decide to come out so soon,_

_And…_

_Everything else._

_Kurt. My parents. The soon-to-be Glee Club, because it is trying to get started even this year, and I wonder if I should join it straight away and dump my athlete façade and be what I actually enjoy –_

_A dancer. A singer. And aside from everything else that makes me seem so not gay at first glance, be an otherwise stereotypical gay guy in either Glee or Drama Club._

_It makes me feel… so low down on the social ladder._

_But it's better than being at the top, where everyone gapes up at you and waits for you to crash to the ground so that they can laugh at you. I've been there, and it made me miserable, even though I thought it would make me look better. Be stronger. Not seem as gay as I was, might help me be what I wasn't._

_I failed then, but I can't fail now._

_But it's so difficult. It's so much so that I wonder how Kurt ever did it?_

_Maybe it was better that he attended Dalton…_

_Maybe it's better if he never comes out, and I can tell him, and spare him the pain…_

_Maybe I can hurt myself somehow and wind up further back in time to spare us both the torment…_

_Maybe that would only make things worse…_

_I don't know._

_I really…_

_Really don't know._

I reach behind myself and shut off the water, the steam parting before me and the remaining droplets from the showerhead splatting on the wannabe-porcelain of our bath-and-shower combo stall. I hear the familiar drips and start rubbing my face to rid it of the water before scrubbing my head – water spraying everywhere – and stepping out.

I grab a towel – my mom always did like to keep them fluffy-soft and clean – and wipe myself dry, avoiding the foggy mirror and my own reflection (I never much liked my appearance, and being back in my awkward fifteen-year-old body is kind of the worst thing for that feeling). I tie the towel around my waist after a run through my hair. I should probably shave – I'm hairy for someone so young, and because of that, I get stubbly pretty quickly – but I'd rather not look at my face right now, so early in the morning. And my thoughts from before? Totally not any help.

So I simply shrug it off and head to my room after putting some lotion on (my mom always nags me about lotion; she says that just because I'm a guy doesn't mean I have to have skin like a 'gator). I select an outfit at random – never did care much what I looked like – and realized something as I started slipping on my shirt: I don't have my letterman.

I didn't get my letterman until what would have been second semester of this year. I don't have my letterman, the shield I hid behind for nearly every walk of my high school life; that thing… I held it in my lap the day I got expelled, the day Kurt called me out on my bullying, brought his and my father into it, and brought the issue to Sue Sylvester, the principal at the time. I held it in my lap, polite enough not to wear it, but I remember desperately wanting, needing to, because it's what gave me status. It's what gave me a cover to hide what I didn't want to be (gay). It made me feel manlier, let me pretend I was normal. It was my security blanket.

And now I don't have it, and with the way this redo is going, I might never get it. The coach might let me join a sport if I try out, but what puckhead or footballer would accept me, knowing what I am compared to them? They're all so closed-minded… they would never let me wear a letterman with pride. They'd be ashamed of me. A gay hockey player. A gay football player. It just didn't happen. Shouldn't happen. And they know that.

And I know it, too.

I heave a long, heavy sigh through my nose, my tongue gliding over my lips before I bite down on the bottom one (a little too hard). I grab my jacket – it's getting quite cold outside, now – and rush outside to meet the bus.

This… is strange. It's the weirdest line of my jumps yet, I think. The most dramatic twist. I don't know if I can handle this. I don't know if I'm cut out for this after all. Every time I get shoulder-checked into a locker, I shove back, but is it enough? Is it enough to report the phone calls and take the slushies and names thrown my way? Is it enough?

Will it ever die down after people get used to be being this way? Because four years like this… four years of high school being played out like this… I don't know if I can make it through. I don't know if it will be enough.

How did Kurt even stand it? He left at one point, but he came back. He came back, knowing full well the consequences, the circumstances, the weight of the decision, knowing about me and my friends and everyone else. And he withstood it. He was able to make it through. For him, what he did – what he had, in terms of friends and support and confidence and courage – it was enough.

But can I be the same? I'm not him. I'm no where near a Kurt Hummel. I'm a Dave Karofsky, I'm a (was a?) closeted gay-jock-bully, I'm a (was a?) dick, I have a temper, I lash out sometimes, I get defensive in a mean, angry way, and I'm now here near as attractive and cutesy and sassy and fashionable and bitchy as Kurt. I'm just me.

I'm just one guy.

I think of all of these things on the way to school, the bus ride a bit of a blur – the cold seat feel through my jeans as I sit down, the quaking of the bus windows and the murmur of people talking and listening to too-loud music on their headphones and the bus driver playing the radio lowly in the background and all of the opening and closing of the side doors to let kids onto and, finally, off of the vehicle – just a passing moment, just a running of thoughts amidst actions that don't faze me.

And then I'm finally at school, and even as I go to my locker and put my books and binders into my backpack for the next three classes, I'm still thinking of essentially negative things.

But those negative things instantly vanish into thin air when I slam my locker shut and find a smiling face on the opposite side of the door.

I jerk my shoulders back, my body language speaking most of my surprise, but my eyebrows raise themselves to illustrate the point further. "Hummel?" I say, because we still aren't on a first-name basis, because he still calls me Karofsky.

Well, at least, he did… until today. "Dave," he says, and I'm eyeing him further as soon as my first name slips past his palely pink lips, "We have first period together, right?"

"Um… yeah? Duh," I say. I switched to French I, knowing he'd be in it. He'll take Spanish I with Shuester next year alongside French II, and that's around the time he starts crushing on Finn, so I wanted to at least be with him for one class one year before everything goes to hell. But I kinda suck at French (the pronunciation is lost on me, as is the spelling), so I've been having him go over the homework with me each morning. SO why is he asking me this?

"Want to walk to class together?" he offers with that same smirking smile, and there's something in his eyes as he cradles his books to his chest that looks… familiar. "And you can sit by me, if you want. I asked the teacher if you wanted to switch seats with that blonde girl who normally sits beside me, and she said that she didn't care if you did."

I stare at him for a lasting moment, confusion first settling on my features before a smile takes over my lips. I think I get it now. I could be wrong, but I hope I'm not, because if he's looking at me like that and offering the seat beside him and asking to walk to class together… he's doing to me what he did (will do?) to Finn in sophomore year the first few times. It could just be a token of friendship, but I really hope it isn't. I really hope this is him trying to get closer to me like he did with Finn. Because that would mean he's beginning to like me. Like, really like me.

And I really like this new turn of events.

"Sure, we can walk to class together," I say, and I smile a little. "And I guess I can switch seats. It's no big deal. You can help me with my French homework easier that way." A thought suddenly nearly slaps me in the face. I stop walking for a moment. "But, uh, Kurt?" (I love saying his name aloud.) "Aren't you worried that hanging out with the gay kid will give you a rep?"

He makes a face at me. "I really don't care about that, and no one else should, either," he says, and I'm really just worried about me being around him too much might out him before he's ready, since I'm not sure he'll want to come out freshman year, since it took him until sophomore year the first time(s) around. But if he doesn't care (or at least says he doesn't care), then I won't care, either.

"Well, so long as it doesn't bother you," I say with a shrug. "But if someone gives you shit for it – you know the whole gay-by-association thing – then you just tell me, okay? I'll deal with it. I'll sick the Fury on any guy – or girl, I guess – who says anything to you because of me," I say a tad protectively, but I can't help it. I even raise my fist and grin to prove my point.

He laughs. "The 'Fury,' I assume, is your fist?" he says, lightly tapping my clenched hand as I lower it to my side again.

"Well, yeah. Girls name their boobs, guys name their fists. It's, like, a classic movie gag."

He laughs a little again, and together we enter the classroom. The doorway isn't wide enough for the two of us shoulder-to-shoulder the way we are, so I let him go first. He notices with a quirk of his eyebrow, and I look away, not liking having been caught being polite.

Kurt takes his seat at his desk and fluidly stretches out a hand to gesture to the seat beside him, the blonde who normally sits there already across the room in my old spot. She's smiling a little, glancing our way before reaching into her bag and getting out a pen and last night's homework.

I awkwardly slip into the desk, my backpack slipping down my arm to drop with a thud onto the tiled floor. Kurt turns to me as the teacher walks in and greets us in French. I expect him to say something, but he doesn't. He just looks at me, and I frown a little, keeping my gaze off of him as I fumble with digging a pencil out of my pocket.

The teacher starts up a lesson about verb tenses for a new round of vocabulary, and then tells us to get into partners to practice saying the verbs and their tenses.

The second she says it, Kurt's desk is scooting right up next to mine, his arm brushing my arm, and I feel my body react instantly: back straightening, mouth drying, face and ears heating, legs going rigid as my feet plant firmly on the floor.

I shake it off by pretending to drop and pick up my pencil. Then, finally, as the heat from my face recedes, I turn to Kurt and offer a small smile. "So. Uh. Want to go first so that I don't completely butcher the words?" I say, and he looks at me with that shiny-eyed expression again for a second prior to giving a small nod.

"Of course." And he recites the words near-flawlessly. Could fool a true Frenchman, I bet. Then, "Now you try. Say them slowly if you have to."

I lick my lips before I speak, like I usually do. But for once, his eyes track the movement, and it makes my heart pick up its pace a little, sending a wash of warmth throughout my body. Oh, oh no. I can't be feeling like this in public. I mean, I'm not aroused or anything, but I'm definitely getting embarrassed and intrigued and I might wind up doing something really stupid pretty soon if he doesn't stop.

But what if he never stops? What if he keeps crushing on me through the entire year, and…

Oh, God. I'm not going to be able to last very long. I definitely will wind up doing something stupid if I know that he has a crush on me. It'll be like the locker room all over again, except minus the anger/hate. Which is both a good and bad thing, but in this reality, Kurt isn't out. And he might not want to be out. And if I kiss him one of these days like I'm aching to, he might actually reciprocate, yeah, but he also might get outed that way, and I just couldn't do that to him. Especially not when he didn't out me even to my dad and his dad and Sylvester when he had the chance.

I stutter and sound out the foreign French words slowly, Kurt gently correcting me every now and again, his face moving closer to mine when I miss the proper way to sound out a vowel, and he sounds it out over and over until I get it right. And I can feel my face heating again, and I start to pull away, because I know there must be eyes on us. We're in the row that's second from the front.

"There, I think you've got it, now," he says, and smiles at me again in that way he does that makes my stomach roll. My fingers twitch in my lap; I want to reach out and touch him, but I can't. Not here, not now, not yet.

" _Merci,"_ I mumble, and it doesn't sound right, but he doesn't bother correcting me. He simply smiles broader and nods. And the fact that Kurt is being this nice to me is trippy compared to every other version of him I've known. I've been nothing but nice to him, so I guess it makes sense. Still, how did he suddenly develop a crush on me? That's something I don't get.

Class continues without much consequence until I turn my pencil over to use the eraser and it flips out of my hands. Dammit, I hate that; it makes me feel clumsy and stupid for not being able to hold on to one writing utensil.

It _kerplink_ s onto the floor and rolls over by Kurt's foot. I take a quick glance at his shoes – Converse, for once, but these are decorated up the ying-yang with all sorts of stuff that somehow perfectly coordinates with his clothes – and clear my throat. "Um. Kurt?" I whisper as I lean over the narrow aisle to him, the rest of the room pretty quiet while everyone works on their French worksheets. "Can you, uh, get my pencil for me?"

I point down at his shoe, and he glances down before bending over slowly and leaning over easily to pass it to me. "Here you are, David," he says lowly, and it take me off guard for a second to the point where I nearly forget to reach out and take the item from him.

When I remember myself again, I reach out for the pencil and grab it, not missing how his fingers purposely slide over mine as he hands it to me. The sensation sends tingles up my arm, and I automatically grunt something incoherent as I return to my work, something akin to a short, "Thanks."

Class ends, and my head is reeling little bit for the rest of the morning. And then lunch rolls around, and Kurt is sitting right beside me at the table, Mercedes and Tina on the other side.

"S-s-so, Dave, how're th-things?" Tina asks mildly as she removes her Gothic arm socks from her hands and lays them in her lap before taking a bite of food.

"Um… okay, I guess?" I reply, and it's weird, because normally Tina doesn't talk to me; she thinks that I'm going to revert back to a douchebag at any given moment.

"C-cool," she says. She smile a little and holds up her milk. "Want it? I have s-something else to drink in my b-b-backpack, but they usually make you b-b-buy a m-milk with y-your lunch."

"Um… sure," I say, because it's chocolate, okay? Who can resist chocolate milk? Not me.

"D-man," and it's Mercedes this time, the nickname new from her mouth but old among some of my older friends, "Do you wanna come with Kurt and Tina and me to the mall this weekend?" and she sends a wink Kurt's way. Out of the corner of my eye I see him gesture something back.

"Um, shopping's not really my thing." I reply, feeling weird. What's going on today?

"Really? But you're gay," Mercedes jokes. "Not that you follow many stereotypes or that I think you would, but it's just refreshing to see."

"Well, refreshing or stereotypical or not, I don't like shopping. The mall's pretty much only good for eating, in my opinion. And getting new video games." I shrug, taking a bite of my burger. The school doesn't cook great food, but their burgers are okay.

"In that case, perhaps you'd like to have lunch with us? You don't have to shop, but you can come along anyway," Kurt says, prodding a little. But I don't mind.

I sigh like I don't want to do it, but hanging out with Kurt (even if Mercedes is there) is something I do want to do. Even if I have to suffer through the mall experience. "Only if you guys buy. I'm broke," I say. "Another reason why I don't like to shop. I never have any money, you know?"

"I'll pay for you," Kurt offers, leaning in slightly. He's begging me with his eyes, and it's difficult to force myself to look away. "So you can come with us."

"Pushy, aren't you?" I say, but a smile is rapidly growing on my face. "Fine, then. I'll go with you guys. Just don't expect me to go into any girly clothing stores."

"D-don't worry, I won't be g-g-going into any of those s-st-stores, either," Tina pipes up. "I'm m-more into Hot T-Topic than, s-say, Aberzombie and B-Bitch."

"…You mean Abercrombie and Fitch?" I say, slightly confused. My face deadpans. "Wait. Nevermind. I get it." I shake my head at myself. "I swear, sometimes I feel just as slow on the intake as Hudson."

They all send me questioning looks, and I realize, whoops, they wouldn't know. They haven't been in Glee with Finn yet. Fuck. I just hope they forget the reference and move on, 'cause that was foolish of me. I bet they're wondering how I even know Finn. He was in the same class as me in fifth grade – gym included – but that's about it. They don't know that he and I have had (will have?) our moments as near-friends.

Thankfully, the conversation does progress onto other things, mostly the girls chatting it up with Kurt and the three of them making plans for the mall this weekend now that I've agreed to go. Well, been pressured into going, but I don't mind. Kurt is a good enough reason to agree to a mall date.

Hmm. _Date._ Wish it were a real date with just the two of us. I still haven't gotten to do that with him just yet.

Outside of my little thought bubble, Kurt's gesturing with his hands excitedly, and suddenly smacks me in the arm with the back of his hand. I jump, startled, the thought bubbles bursting. And Kurt just looks at me for a second before apologizing repeatedly.

I laugh. "'S nothing. Don't worry about it."

And then he continues taking to his friends again, sending me nothing but a quick smile.

God, I don't know what I'm doing anymore. Everything is so different, so messed up, but kind of all in a good way. And looking at Kurt like this, the way he looks just right now, in this moment: his currently lacking height, his slightly rounded face, his hair only recently getting the beginnings of his usual coif, the slight pink on his cheeks, those mostly-blue-but-also-multi-colored eyes glancing back at me every now and then while he speaks…

I can feel my heart clench, because even at this age, and after all my previous experiences, I'm positive that I love him. I keep saying it, but each moment I'm near him, it just flares right back up and I'm reminded all over again of my miniature obsession with him.

.o0o.

Now comes time for the trip to the mall, and I'm all sorts of awkward. Really, I think I've gained a new level of being "uncomfortable" and "out-of-place" in my own personal records, but also probably the records of, like, the entire world.

I feel like a fourth wheel, or a really guyish guy in a group of girls. Which is almost true; I might be gay, but appreciating another guy's appearance is about all I can do. I don't know fashion or make-up or hygiene products or skin care or hair or accessories or shoes. I know sports and junk food and soda and brushing my teeth once a day and leaving my hair mostly the way it is every morning and taking a shower just to clean myself when I have to and wearing whatever clothes I stumble upon that I mostly let me mom buy me because I have shopping and am too lazy to care what I wear.

So this? Yes, completely and utterly awkward, totally the definition of "misplaced." I don't belong here, in this scene.

But…

But I want to get closer to Kurt. I almost need to, the same way I need to eat or drink or breathe.

…Okay, that sounds really mushy-pathetic, so I'm just going to pretend I never thought it.

Moving on.

"Dave, come on!" Kurt's saying, looking back at me and waving me over with a few fingers.

I glance up at the name of the store he wants me to follow him into. I shove my hands into my pockets. I roll my eyes. "Really, guys? Ralph Lauren?" I shake my head and bring one hand out of my jeans to point a thumb two stores down. "You go ahead. I'll be in Rock America looking at band tees."

Kurt looks disappointed for a moment, but doesn't push. "Okay. We'll see you soon, then. And hey, if you see Tina, tell her we're all meeting in the food court in about half an hour, all right? Well… you better make that an hour. Knowing me, it'll be an hour putting on a show for Mercedes."

Really, how do these girls not realize that he's gay? Why doesn't he tell them? But you know what, it's not any of my business. And they probably do know, but I won't say anything to them unless they say something to me first.

I stroll on over to Rock America and barely glance at some of the shirts, little commentary in my head popping up with each new shirt I touch or look at. Johnny Cash (cool); Aerosmith (awesome); AC/DC (rockin'); TOOL (hardcore); Hawthorn Heights (a little emo-kid-like, but still pretty good); Green Day (fuck yeah); Ted Nugent (um, I kinda want this one); P.O.D. (some good shit right there); Linkin Park (the oldschool stuff is good); Panic! At the Disco and Fall Out Boy (why are these even here? Shouldn't these be in, I dunno, Hot Topic?); and random pot-related t-shirts (uh, okay, whatever).

Wait. Wait. Hold up. Is that a Misfits t-shirt? YES. I'm buying that one. It's just black with the white face on it and a white version of the logo across the back shoulders, but I want it.

I'm buying my shirt when Tina strolls in, peering around at some of the bands. She notices me and smiles a little. "Oh, h-hey, D-Dave. Where a-are the others?"

"In Ralph Lauren still, I think," I reply with a shrug, taking the bag into my hand and stuffing the other in my pocket. "They told me to tell you that we're all meeting back in the food court in about an hour. It's probably closer to half an hour, now. I've been browsing in where a while."

"Th-that sounds f-fine," she says offhandedly. She runs a hand through her black-and-green-streaked hair and glances around a second more. "I was going to sh-shop in here, but nothing's r-really c-c-catching my eye. Wanna go to the f-food c-court early? We c-can just hang until Mercedes and K-Kurt sh-show up."

"Sure," I agree easily, because I don't have anything else better to do. I feel weird being Tina's friend; even when I was in Glee Club for a short time, I didn't really know her that well. And I was in football before Glee, and I still didn't know Mike that well, either. But hey, she's not even dating him yet, is she? She won't start until, like, junior year. Huh. I forget how many things are different in freshman year compared to the years I remember the most (sophomore and junior years; I could care less about senior year, and I totally forgot everything about this year).

We head over to the food court, and not ten minutes later, are joined by the other half of our group. It still feels weird to be with the three of them like this; and it feels even weirder to be without Berry or Hudson or Puckerman, because I was actually getting pretty close with each of them before this current timeline/jump. I don't even know what to call my time travels any morel; they just happen. They simply are.

Kurt comes and plops right down beside me, leaving the girls at one end of the table and us guys on the other. Kurt offers to buy me lunch. "You said you were broke, so…"

"No, my parents decided to give my money for this outing. I was actually able to buy a shirt. It was on clearance, but still. So I'll buy my own lunch, okay?" because buying lunch for a friend at school is completely normal. People do it for each other all the time; Hell, I've mooched off of Azzy more times than should be acceptable (I actually probably owe him around twenty bucks). But buying someone lunch at the mall? That seems a little more like a date, and I know better.

Kurt and I are not dating. He's not even out yet. Nothing can happen. And nothing will, because I'm going to make sure I protect him and his sexuality until he's ready, even if he's being blatantly obvious about his little crush on me. And I'm totally sucking it all up, don't get me wrong, but still, I have to keep his best interests at heart. I fudge things up with him so often that for once, I just want an easy friendship with the guy.

I walk up to an Asian stir-fry place, surprised (and then feeling guilty for being surprised, because it makes me feel racist) when Tina doesn't join me. She instead slides on over to the Dairy Queen stand, opting to get ice cream as her calorie intake instead of real food.

"It's more gratifying," she says, and giggles when Mercedes agrees wholeheartedly and joins her in the line. Kurt suddenly steps up behind me, once again the separation between the pairs of us being a little uncomfortable.

"Hey," he says, smiling lightly. "What are you getting?"

"Um, I was thinking the Pad Thai noodles with chicken and veggies," I say carelessly. "What about you?" I ask with a sideways glance at him.

Kurt doesn't miss the look, and his lips quirk at it. He returns his gaze to the menu. "I'm not sure. I was thinking between the veggie stir-fry or the veggie-and-tofu stir-fry," he says with a thoughtful tap of his fingers to his chin. I want to reach out and grab those delicate fingers, lace them with mine, but I firmly reign in the urge. I hate how much he affects me; it kind of pisses me off, because I get all wound up and frustrated by just about every move he makes. It was torture the first time around; watching him perform in the Glee Club in front of the entire gymnasium, see him in between classes, and even after school sometimes when Glee and football or hockey merged; it's what made me so violent. I had to get it out somehow.

Here I am, analyzing things again. I really gotta stop doing that; it takes away from the moment. So, to clear my head, I make my order and start guzzling the drink they hand me as soon as it's in my hands. Kurt starts making idle chit-chat, mostly about some of the things he bought, and I just nod accordingly and wait for him as he makes his own order and mine gets served on a tray. I take the tray, wait a second longer, and then follow Kurt back to our table with our jackets and coats hung over our chairs.

"I can't believe this!" Mercedes suddenly bellows as she sits down second later, and I have half a bite of noodle in my mouth. "Someone up and stole my purse! I mean, I took out my wallet and lip gloss, but I have some shit in here that I don't want to lose!"

"What, like your car keys?" Kurt jokes, knowing full well that none of us have taken driver's education yet, and therefore have no permits or license; we were dropped off by our parents.

"No! My cell phone!" she emphasizes, and Kurt's face deadpans.

"We need to get that back. I must be able to text you whenever I want," he says firmly, swallowing down a bite of food with an audible sound like a period at the end of his sentence.

"Damn straight. And look, it think I see it; over there, by Claire's. That guy. Look! He's rifflin' through it! Think I should go teach him a lesson? I'll go all Panther on his white ass," Mercedes growls, and I really respect her for her confidence.

"No, let me do it," I say, standing up and setting a scowl on my face.

"You go, Dave!" Kurt offers as encouragement as I storm off in the guy's direction, watching as he turns his back from everyone and digs in Mercedes' person items, searching for something of value. He finds her cell phone and is about to drop the purse and steal it when I whip him around and reel back my fist. Then, without much warning to him, I let his jaw meet the Fury.

His head droops after the impact, and he starts cussing me out; not whimpering, not pleading or asking for forgiveness. Nope, he just swears up a storm, saying 'how dare I' and shit like that. Fucker. I'll hit him again if I gotta.

"Give. Me. That. Cell. Phone," I hiss, punctuating each word with a harsh poke to his chest with my free hand, the other still gripping the front of his shirt at the point where I had wheeled him around. "And the purse, too. Both belong to a friend of mine, so hand. Them. Over." Three more pokes.

The guy sneers at me. "Fine. 'S not like I got anything outta it, anyhow. And there are plenty more purses around."

"Like Hell there are! I'm turning you in, bud. To the mall security cops. How's it feel to be shown up by a high school freshman?" I smirk evilly, and the guy's face pales.

"Wh-what? But you look like you could be in college!" he sputters, and then he gets really angry again, starting to curse out both me _and_ my mother.

"Shut your fucking _mouth_ ," I snarl lowly, leaning in close to his face. The guy's got a pretty ugly mug on him. Scruffy, like he hasn't shaved, and there's a scar on his eyebrow like he got whacked in the head with something before and had to get stitches. "Gimme the purse and the cell phone, and stop cussin' and I might let you go. Maybe. If I'm feeling _merciful."_

The guy glares at me – he's shorter than me, and kinda scrawny, but clearly used to getting into fights; and he looks a lot older than me, too, maybe twenty-five to thirty or so. But I could be wrong. For all I know, he's eighteen or nineteen and has done a shitload of some drug or another and looks older than he is. Whatever. He's a sleezeball, and I'm turning him in. I just told him I wouldn't so he'd cooperate.

The guy gives me back the purse and cell phone (which I return to its proper place inside the bag) and command him to pick up the items he tossed out onto the ground (threatening to kick him in the ribs if he didn't). Once he's done, I haul him to his feet, drop the objects back inside, zip up the purse, and while still holding him with one hand, I wave Mercedes over.

Two of the three of them scuttle toward us, Kurt giving me this strange look I've never seen on his face before. Mercedes hugs me and thanks me repeatedly and immediately withdraws her phone and plants a joking kiss on it, calling it her baby.

The mocha babe then turns her rage on the thief. "Take him away, Dave. I don't wanna see his ugly face any more. The cops can have him."

"Can do," I nod, and the guy starts babbling about how I promised to let him go. I snort and don't even waste my time looking at him. "Promise? Dude, I didn't promise you a damn thing. I just said I _might,_ if I felt _merciful._ But you're a thieving bastard and I'm not feeling too merciful today towards thieving bastards. So suck it up, pal, 'cause I'm getting you thrown out."

It works out smoothly; using Mercedes, Kurt, and myself as witnesses, we get the mall cops to throw the guy out of the building and issue a warning, the next resulting in arrest. Dusting off my hands of the matter, I ask the other if they want to go back and eat, where we left Tina to guard our other possessions.

"Yeah, I do. I'm hungry after all that work," I jest, and chuckle a little to myself. Mercedes laughs with me, and Kurt sends a smile.

Once we're seated again, Kurt turns to me and says casually but frankly, "That was quite noble of you, David. I'm oddly touched and proud of you for sticking up for Mercedes like that, even when you don't know her that well yet. You're really sweet, in that protective-tough-guy way." And he leans back, smiling, and I catch the girls exchanging glances and smirks at his course of action.

I clear my throat and keep my ryes trained on the cooling food on my plate. "Um. It was no big deal. I might be young and stuff, but I can handle shit when it comes around."

"Well, my cell phone and I thank you," Mercedes says, and I glance up to catch her winking at me. "You're a keeper, Dave Karofsky. If only for, you know, bodyguard purposes. Not that I need one, mind you, but still. For Tina and Kurt."

Tina shoves her, saying she would have done the same for Mercedes and that 'Cedes knows it, and Kurt blushes a little before returning to his food. And then we're all laughing, and suddenly, all of that awkwardness and out-of-placeness is gone. I feel welcome here, now. Accepted.

_Cared_ about.


	7. Chapter 7

_I'm in a dream._

_I know I am, because normal events of the day_

_Don't include things like fluffy purple llamas in the background_

_And distorted buildings that don't look like they could stand on their own._

_So it's a dream, and I know it;_

_My senses are dulled,_

_Everything silly makes sense,_

_And Kurt Hummel is kissing me._

_Okay, that definitely doesn't happen on a daily basis, so I know this is a dream._

_But it's a nice one._

_We're at this (purple) llama farm,_

_And he's shying away from them because they might get hair on his clothes,_

_And he doesn't want their saliva to stain his precious clothes, either,_

_So at least this part of the dream is realistic._

_But the part where I'm standing behind him, taking the back of his hand into my palm,_

_And moving him closer with light pressure on his back, my toes tapping his heels to move him forward,_

_And my hand guiding his to pet the llama's nose…_

_All the while chuckling softly and whispering encouraging things into his ear,_

_Things like,_

_"They won't hurt you,"_

_"It's safe,"_

_"They won't dirty your clothes, even if it's your fault for wearing such fancy stuff when I told you not to,"_

_"I love you, you ridiculous boy…"_

_I just can't bear it._

_It's both like and unlike me,_

_But what I do and don't want,_

_And it makes my heart ache_

_Because I don't want to be some big softie_

_But at the same time_

_I'm willing to be that if I means I can act that way around Kurt._

_…And have him react accordingly._

I stir slowly from my dream, the thoughts acting as a rope to help guide me back to reality. My room is dark, but faintly navy blue, so the sun should be rearing its bright yellow head in about an hour, give or take a few minutes.

I groan lightly and roll over onto my side, sighing and rubbing my eyes. I peer at my clock, the green digits standing out in the dim lighting. Yup, I was right. I still have about an hour until dawn, and about a half hour until I need to get up and ready for school.

"Uhg," I grunt, because I hate waking up before my alarm with such little time left. I could try to get back to sleep, but what would be the point? I would have to get up soon anyway. Now I have to lie here, staring out at nothing, and wait for my alarm. It's bogus, but I can't get up and shower yet; my dad's going to be going in there in about, oh, five minutes. He always showers and leaves for work before me. We only see each other for a few seconds in the hallway each morning.

And people wonder why I'm not very close with my father. Humph.

(Not to mention he is almost never present at any of my games, ever. Hockey and football are of mild interest to him. He prefers boring things like fucking _golf_.)

Sighing exaggeratedly, I haul myself up into sitting position and shut my door before flicking on my light. I rummage around my room, picking up dirty clothes and stuffing them in my hamper – I really need to do my laundry soon; I almost forgot how my mom made me start doing my own laundry my freshman year, claiming me to be "a responsible young man" now – and turn to my closet. I guess I can pick out something to wear ahead of time for once.

I select something usual for me to wear to school: the black Misfits t-shirt I bought recently and a blue and white plaid button-up t-shirt that I'll leave open over it. And then my usual purposely-faded jeans with extra pockets since I roll like that.

Once I hear the water shut off, I give it ten minutes until my dad is out. I emerge from my bedroom, clothing in hand (it's going to be easier than waddling to my room with a towel around my waist, I realize), and give my usual morning greeting to my father.

"Mornin'," I say, and he looks freshly shaven – keeping that beard around his mouth like always, though – and his hair is freshly combed.

"Good morning, son," he says curtly, and ducks around me to head to the kitchen to gather the usual: an orange, the morning paper from the stoop, a travel mug full of coffee (after he makes it of course), and either a slice of toast (with salted butter and cinnamon-sugar) or a bagel (the two halves sandwiched together with cream cheese).

When I'm out of the shower and smell coffee and hear the pop of the toaster as I make my way to my room again, I know that he's just heading out the door.

And my mom knows it, too. "Bye, honey," she yawns from the other room, and pretty soon I'm out of my room again (I only stopped in there to gather up my school supplies like my dad often does with his briefcase in the morning) and heading into the kitchen myself. My mom is already stumbling in, rubbing her eyes and asking me to pour her a cup of coffee. "Big day today?" she asks.

I glance up from the bowl of cereal I'm pouring. "Huh? Oh. No. Why do you ask?"

"Because. You look a little dressed up. You're not in your usual clothes, anyway. Finally getting tired of all those polos, sweetie?" she jokes groggily, and takes a sip of her coffee. Her voice sounds infinitely better when she speaks next, the hot beverage having done its job. "Not that I mind the polos. I buy them for you since you look so cute in them."

"Mom, never call a guy 'cute,'" I grumble, sitting down at the table with my food. She smirks, a triumphant little chuckle briefly chiming from the back of her throat behind her closed lips.

"Sorry, David. Thought I could poke fun of you, but I guess you're not in the mood for teasing this morning, are you?"

"Who's ever in the mood for teasing first thing in the morning?" I counter a tad bitterly. I instantly regret it and rephrase with a softer tone than before. "Sorry, Mom. You can tease all you want. I'm just a little grumpy."

"Oh, you've always been a bit of a grump. Even as a baby you were so fussy! Definitely one of the 'difficult' or 'slow to warm' temperaments. Closer to the 'slow to warm,'" she amends, and smiles at me.

I roll my eyes. "Please, Mom. Don't talk about baby-me. It's just… awkward. And as for the temperaments thing? Yeah. I'm taking psychology, and the first thing we learn is the brain of young minds. I get it."

She pouts. "You're definitely no fun this morning, Dave. Who spit in your cereal?"

"No one. I just had a weird dream and some weird thoughts afterward and now I'm a little miffed at myself and life in general. The usual teenage angst," I say with a grunt. An irritated grunt. Irritation geared toward myself. And my subconscious. Stupid fucking subconscious…

My mom makes a face. "Um, sweetie… what sort of dream was it? Do I need to wash your sheets?"

It takes my early-morning-slowed brain a second to catch her drift. Then I'm jerking backward, dropping my spoon with a clank into my bowl and going red in the ears. "MOM! No! God, no. Nothing like that. Please, _please_ don't refer to wet dreams around me, okay? Just… don't. If I ever… I'll take care of it. And just… no." I laugh a little, but I'm frowning deeply. "I just got up on the wrong side of the bed, that's all. Totally normal stuff. _Sheesh._ "

"Okay, okay," she apologizes immediately, "I didn't mean to get you all flustered, dear. I'll just go back to drinking my coffee, now." And she shuts herself up after that, allowing me to finish eating and preparing for school in silence.

Once I'm at school, I'm walking alongside Kurt again. We've been doing this every day since he first asked me. It's getting a little suspicious, I think, but perhaps not. I could be paranoid. All I know is, we keep things casual between us. We chat about normal, simple things; video games, school gossip, sports for me, fashion for him, celebrities overall. Things like that. Movies, music, favorite hobbies, small memories.

Memories end up being kind of touchy, though. It's a subject I confuse after being tossed around by the universe so much, and it's also something that I'd rather not bring up because of who I used to be, even as a child, before high school.

"Where were you hiding yourself, Dave?" Kurt wants to know as we sit down to lunch a few hours later. "Honestly. All I can recall of you is some big tough kid on the playground, frenemies with Finn Hudson and one of the guys who liked to tug on girls' pigtails because he was amused when they cried. You got called down to the principal's office quite a bit. But your teachers always gushed in class that you kept getting some of the best grades. How is that fair?"

Mercedes laughs a little, and slaps me on the arm. "Oh, leave him alone, Kurt. He grew up, like all of us. High school will do that to you. He's cool now, so let's just go with it."

"R-right," Tina nods, and for some reason, I find myself frowning every time she talks. She has a stutter? But she didn't, as far as I remember, for the majority of high school. I don't know.

I shrug and take a bite of my sandwich. "Whatever. I just got tired of bringing all of the negativity to people, I guess. Tired of getting in trouble, then feeling guilty when I got off the hook for most of it since I had such good grades. Made me feel like a sleeze," I grumble.

I sink a little lower into my chair. If only they knew all the stuff that I do. All of the stuff that I've done. Then they'd all understand why I'm trying so hard to be someone else. Someone that I'm sort of am deep down, and sort of am not. It's a struggle, both to explain and behave like. But it's me. This is me. I guess if, you know, I had a better mindset at such a young age, which I do now. I know now that not everything will crumble around me if I'm careful about it.

"That makes sense," Kurt nods, and digs into his own lunch. He makes a face – something that seems disapproving, but it seems to be directed toward himself, because he's fidgeting uncomfortably and not looking at anybody for a lasting moment.

A wave of sympathy and empathy strike me at the same time. I know what he's feeling. He's hiding right now. He's not out yet, and I am, and he feels like he needs to prove himself somehow. I've been there. He was the out one, and I was so, so, so terrified of being out myself that I did all sorts of things. But Kurt is different than me; he's not violent, he's more confident (almost to the point of being bitchy at times), and he knows more about being gay than I do. I mean, I only know stuff because I learned it from him and the Internet. But he seems like he was born with the knowledge.

"Kurt," I say, not sure why I'm calling out his name, but feeling the need to. Tina and Mercedes exchange glances, and then suddenly stand up from the table.

"We just remembered that we have something to go do for math class," Mercedes says, her eyes sparkling a little.

"Y-yeah. We w-were both absent th-that one d-day, and need to g-go m-make up a qu-qu-quiz in the library," Tina explains, and soon the pair of them are smiling and waving as they take their trays and leave.

Those sneaky bitches. I got to remember to either hug or verbally stress or buy something for them later to thank them. I don't know if they've figured out that Kurt is gay or not, but I think they suspect that I like Kurt. Which I don't mind; I've always been unable to disguise my feelings very well – and when I did, it always came out angry or violent, which isn't good – so if they know, then they know. And if only the two of them in specific know, then I'm fine with it, because they're my friends, now, and they won't leak any information without asking permission, since they care about Kurt's wellbeing (and me a tiny bit, too, I guess).

As soon as Kurt and I are alone at our table, Kurt glances at me, head cocking slightly, waiting with a raised brow as to what I was going to say. Except I have no idea what I was going to say; I only wanted to rid his face of that downtrodden expression. It doesn't belong there, ever.

"Um…" I begin, picking at my food as a distraction, "You know, you should meet my friend Azimio. He's pretty much the only other friend I have besides you and your friends, and he's a pretty cool guy. He was technically the first person I came out to. At school, anyway. My mom knew first. But, uh. He's cool, you know? With… everything. About me, I mean. And I think you guys could be friends. Hell, him and Mercedes might even make good friends. They're kinda similar in the sense that they take nothing from nobody and always make really funny remarks to things."

"I think that'd be a great idea," I says, "Having our friends meet. It helps the high school experience to have friends meet friends into one big group. It works better in movies, anyway," he adds with a shrug. He smiles a bit, then asks, "Speaking of friendships, would you care to hang out with me this weekend?"

"You… you mean, by ourselves?" I mutter, and my voice cracks at the end. I immediately clear my throat and glance down at my food. "Sure. Yeah, cool. What do you want to do?"

"I thought maybe you might want to come over to my house. Meet my dad and get some mechanic tips, maybe watch a movie. Things like that. You might even help me understand Call of Duty, since my dad plays it and I have no idea how it works," Kurt offers with a laugh. "First-person shooter games confound me."

"Uh… sure. Yeah, I'd love to," I reply before I can stop myself. I quickly correct it. "That is, I mean… every guy knows how to play first-person shooter games, and it's a disgrace if you don't, so to spare you from being a noob, I'll help you out."

"…A 'noob?'" Kurt frowns.

Dear Lord, he's worse than I thought. I sigh. "A newbie. Someone who's completely new to the games and doesn't know what the Hell he's doing."

"Well, that'd be me."

I raise a brow at him. "It's not a compliment, you realize."

"Yes, I realize," he sighs in response, popping a grape into his mouth, "But that's why I have you to teach me. Also, what are 'campers?' I thought they were those pop-up trailer-like things you use when you go camping, but my dad was shouting at the television screen while saying it, so…"

I shake my head. "Campers are people who sit and 'camp' in one spot and shoot everybody to get themselves more kills and basically act like dickweeds to everybody else, since they usually camp near the place where people respawn. And I see that look on your face. Here, lemme explain: 'respawning' is when your character comes back to life again for another round." Talking video game lingo with him is kinda amusing. He's so clueless about it, and that's hilarious.

Kurt nods understandingly. "I get it now. Thanks. But that doesn't excuse you from coming over."

"Come on, like I would ditch you?" I say, grinning. "We're friends now. You're doomed to be stuck with me for a long while, bitch."

And he just laughs, and I feel probably dangerously too happy for making him laugh like that.

.o0o.

"Hey Karofsky," Azimio smirks as he comes and places his arm around my shoulders. "So I saw you talking _alone_ with Hummel at lunch yesterday. Bro, why didn't you tell me what he's the one you're after? I know some of the others pick on you two – I mean, Hummel is kind of a sissy and you're, well, you know – and I try to get them to lay off, 'cause you're my homeboy – but I couldda totally helped you out, man! Don't you have faith in me?"

I chuckle a bit, shrugging off his arm. Guess he's back to being okay with touching me again. I snort, "No, 's fine. I got things under control. Fuck you for figuring it out, though; am I really that obvious?"

"Dunno. To me you are. But then again, bro, I've known you for forever, so I can tell when you be making those goo-goo eyes at somebody. And you know, I've mostly gotten used to it, y'know? 'S not a big deal no more. It's jus' how you are now, I guess." Az shrugs, and he nudges me, and I nudge him back, and we're officially totally cool again, I can tell. Not an ounce left of awkwardness, _finally._ Except then he has to go and wonder in a low voice, just enough for me and no one else in the hallway to hear, "So dude… you two do anythin' yet? I want deets. I kiss and tell with who I like; now it's time to reciprocate. Give a little back."

I feel my face flush minutely, and I glance away. "N-nothing like that, Az. Kurt's only my friend. I mean, we haven't even hung out yet. Uh. Well. We will this weekend, at his place, but just as friends. I'm not even sure if he's gay, okay? So I'm taking things slow." This is partially a lie. I _know_ for a fact that he's gay. I'm just preserving the truth for him again. I seem to be doing that a lot. Huh.

"Oh. Well, that's cool, too. I mean, that's how things gotta work sometimes." He nods, and then nudges me again. "Hey. I was wonderin'. D'ya think you can get me a date with his bangin' friend?"

"Mercedes Jones?" I ask for clarification.

"Yeah, man. I've always kinda liked her but never knew what to do about it, y'know? But look! You're totally getting into that crowd, and it's like a way for me to get to know her. So, can you? If not a date, then I'd settle for a group hang out thing. That works, too."

And the way Azzy's looking at me, I can't say no. I just wonder if Mercedes will like him or not. In every other encounter the two have had, they haven't been very… pleasant.

"Yeah, okay, dude. I'll try," I tell him, and he grins.

"Thanks! Now I owe you a solid."

"Don't worry about it," I reply, brushing it off. "Later," I tell him as I approach my classroom, one he doesn't attend.

"Later!" and then he's strutting off down the hallway, probably feeling pretty good about life right about now.

And come to think of it, I feel pretty good about life right now, too.

.o0o.

"Hey! It's that faggot!"

"C'mere, faggy-faggy-faggy…"

"Who're you trying to call, a cat?" I holler back at the older jocks blocking my path. It's about two days away from the weekend – which means Wednesday – and all I want to do is get home, eat a quick snack, and do some homework to pass the time. All I want to do is last until Saturday, when I'm supposed to go to Kurt's house.

"No, sucka! We're talkin' to _you_ ," one of them says, and he's walking closer. I stop dead and toss down my backpack onto the wintry sidewalk.

"Don't test me, fellas," I growl, taking a bold half-step forward, fist raised. "'Cause I swear to God I will tear off your balls and feed them to you if you so much as touch me, got it?"

"Ooh, big bear of a fag is playing tough. Should we see how tough the hairy girl really is?" another says, and he's grinning evilly like some maniac clown.

And I fucking _hate_ evil clowns. Just ask my mom about the movie _It._ I decided never to read a single Stephen King book because of that fucking clown.

"I mean it, boys," I roar, because I'm not scared of these fuckers. Not a speck of fear is in me. I only get scared nowadays if Kurt's in danger, or my parents, or someone else I care about. But me? Fuck, I could care less. Enough shit has happened to me – death a few different times – to the point where I really couldn't give two fucks what happens now. They can beat me black and blue and I wouldn't care. I'd just get back up and knock their teeth in, make 'em swallow their own tongues. "Touch me and you fucking _die_!"

"Like you have the balls! We can beat you any day, _Freshman_ ," the leader says, and he must be a senior (or a junior?) because only upperclassmen refer to freshman students by their grade titles.

"I dunno if we should, John. I mean, look at the guy; he's about as tall as half of us. And shit, I don't want to get suspended again," one of them in the back chimes in.

"Shut up, Eric; you're always such a fucking pansy. Fine, get the fuck outta here. We got four more guys left, we don't need you," John spits back, tossing the remark over his shoulder where Eric is walking slowly. Then he turns his gaze back to me. "Now then," he says, getting close now. He cracks his knuckles out in front of him. "Where were we…? Oh yeah, I was gonna beat your ass since we can't have any gays in lovely Lima, Ohio."

"Don't say I didn't warn ya, then," I grin wickedly, and crouch down into a fighting stance. The first guy rushes at me; someone flanking John's right. The guy charges, aims to tackle me to the ground – because kicking a man when he's down is the easiest method – except I'm not leaving myself open for that. I stand my ground, take the brunt of his weight with my legs, and use my arms to throw him, spinning, off to the side. Nearly like a flip, but not as high or drastic.

"What the –?" John cusses, "What's your problem, dude? _Get 'im_!"

And now the remaining three are coming after me (Eric already retreating like he was told). Fucking great. I scowl, let out a battle cry, and meet them head-on. Think I don't remember all those years of high school hockey and football? I'm a little smaller now than I was then, since I'm just barely fifteen, but you know what? I know how to handle myself. I know what I'm capable of.

And these thugs are _nothing._

I stopped a thief at the mall. I've taken a bullet. I've drowned. I can do this. I can take them. And if I get a little bruised along the way? Oh well. I'll live. And I know I'll be able to say with a snort and a smirk, 'You should see the other guy.'

The first impact is some guy's knee to my stomach. Shit. I hate that doubled-over feeling as I stumble backward and slide a little on the cement. I glance up in time to see a fist flying at me from someone else.

But those are the only hits I permit them.

Then I'm a bull, charging forward and screaming, screaming, right outside the school, right in broad daylight, right on the side of the school parking lot. I tackle my initial aggressor and sock him good in the face, then kick him in the back of the knees to make him drop to the ground. I spin on my heel so fast I can smell the rubber of my shoes burn. Then I'm aiming a fist in John's face, the older boy instantly bleeding, stumbling back, holding his nose, and whimpering. I smirk triumphantly and pan my eyes over to the last guy, who's just gaping at me with a horror-stricken look on his face. He shakes his head, turns, and flees.

John calls me a, "cock-sucking little bitch" in a screech and flails his limbs, hoping to hit me, but this guy ain't landing punches anytime soon. I uppercut him one in the jaw and watch him holler before I return to the guy I dropped to the ground. He's scowling at me, his eyes glaring, and as he wipes his mouth of saliva he launches himself at me, shouting something about hurting his best friend.

"Really, I hurt Johnny over here? Sorry about that. Here, let me even the score for ya…"

And right as he kicks me square in the groin, I fall to the ground, reaching out blindly to take him down with me. It works; I grab his shirt and yank him down, and while grinding my teeth through the pain shooting up from my crotch, I pin him beneath me and start wailing with my fists in his face.

He calls out for John, and John is suddenly tearing me off, saying I'm gonna rape his pal. What the fuck? Like I would ever rape someone! And furthermore, like I'd even waste my dick on a guy like this. He's a worse brainless-bully than I was.

I turn the tables on John's grip on me by sending him to the ground again, this time with a blow so hard and clean it knocks his lights out. He falls, unconscious, and finally his friend gets the idea and waves his hands up at me, begging me not to hurt him again.

"That's right!" I yell at them both, "You two just got beat by a gay dude! Gonna tell any of your friends? Tell any teachers? No, I thought not. 'Cause you all a bunch of cowards who can't even confront one guy without backup, and that same guy just won out against all of ya! So listen up, and take this experience to heart, 'cause I'm not repeating myself: don't. Mess. With. Gays. Not all of them will fight back, it's true, but we're not pussies. We're men just like you fuckers, 'cept we don't need to beat somebody else down to feel like it. So why don't you scramble yourself up, grab your friend, and get the fuck home. And when Mommy asks why you're so beat up, tell her you fell down some rainbow stairs."

And then I trek back up to the sidewalk, grab my bag, and head home.

.o0o.

"Oh my God, David!" my mom gasps as soon as I walk in the door.

"What's up, Ma?" I say with a dry smile.

"What's up? _What's up?_ David, you're all scuffed up and bruised and – and the school just called, saying they saw some boys approach you and try to ambush you, but you took them all down! And some witness was there to identify you and some of the boys, and now…" She shakes her head firmly. "I don't know whether to be proud of you or ground you."

"Please just be proud," I say with a slight whine, because I'm really, really exhausted right now, "Because I just want to take a bath and go to bed. Oh, and I want to still be able to go to Kurt's house this weekend."

"Oh. Of course, yes! Yes. I'm sorry. I just… I'm overwhelmed! A fight, and you won, and it was about your sexuality, wasn't it?"

"It always is, Mom," I sigh, shedding a few layers and objects as I head for the bathroom. Soaking my wounds and muscles sounds good right now. The adrenaline wore off after the first five minutes after the fight, and now I'm aching all over from exerting myself. "And I used to think I wouldn't be able to bear it. But you know what? It's not so bad. I'd rather it happen to me than…" and I cut myself off with a bite to my bottom lip. Oops.

"Better you than who, sweetie?" my mom says, head whipping around to stare at me.

_Shit._

"No one, it's nothing. I just mean better me than someone else, you know? _Anyone_ else. In the world," I add, trying to steer her clear of anyone I know.

"Is it Kurt?" she says, always the intuitive one, always the clever one, always pissing me off.

I hiss and stiffen up my shoulders. " _No_ ," I say hotly.

Too hot. She knows. "It is!" she gasps, and suddenly her soothingly cool hand is on my back, rubbing a small circle. "Oh, my poor baby, you're trying to protect him, aren't you? You know, I knew Kurt as a child. There was about a month's worth of time that I had to go back and forth to the mechanics for my car, and I met Burt and Kurt's mother and little Kurt. And I knew it even then that he was going to grow up gay. He was just so… sensitive. And he played with dolls," she adds, smiling humbly. "And besides, you're being way too defensive, which means you're lying. He is gay, isn't he? But he's not… _out_ like you are, so you're trying to…?"

I don't know what I'm trying to do. Be a martyr? Protect the guy I love? And all by distract the bullies from Kurt and have them focus on me instead? Yeah, I guess that might be what I'm trying to do. "Am I succeeding?" I want to know, and it comes out in a whisper as I peer over my shoulder at her.

She turns me around fully and embraces me. "Oh, David. Yes, sweetie, you're succeeding. You're such a good friend to him, and he doesn't even know. And I bet it hurts you, doesn't it? Because you like him, I can tell."

"Yeah." Yeah, I like him. More than I can ever tell her.

More than I can ever tell _him._

"Well," my mother says gently as she pulls out of the hug, "I better let you go take that much-needed bath. I bet your body is killing you right now."

Not enough to jump, thankfully. "It is." So I give her a dismissive wave and turn and pace down the hallway, my head riddled with gunk that doesn't even resemble thoughts.

The sole thought that is clear, however (aside from needing to get into some hot water), is the one that thinks, 'What if Kurt was the witness? What will he think? Say? How will he _react?_ '


	8. Chapter 8

_I hate rumor mills._

_I'm sitting in class right now,_

_My head in my arms,_

_Trying to place the events_

_Of the past two days._

_So…_

_There was Jacob Ben Israel as the witness,_

_And he blogged all about my fight_

_But since someone else initiated it,_

_Someone who was trying to hurt me because of my sexuality_

_I didn't get into trouble. Much._

_(Just a Saturday detention for fighting.)_

_The guys who jumped me got expelled,_

_Because Figgins is actually kinda ruthless._

_But when Kurt heard about it…_

_The first thing he did was hug me._

_I was so shocked, just standing there, utterly useless and speechless._

_He hugged me, held me, told me how brave and strong I was,_

_And how he can't believe he has a friend as tough and cool as me;_

_And it felt like something out of my dreams,_

_Because Kurt doesn't really act like that._

_Then again…_

_I never knew Kurt at this age. Not really._

_I didn't start fully harassing him until he came out, initially._

_So to know this younger, slightly more vulnerable and naïve Kurt…_

_It makes me wonder._

"Mr. Karofsky? Care to pay attention?" the teacher says, idly tapping my desk.

I lift my head and shrug. "Sorry, Teach. Won't happen again."

The teacher nods. "I know you've been through a lot this week, but it's Friday; time to cheer up, right?"

I nod, the faintest of smiles briefly reaching my lips. "Right." Absolutely right. Because I'm going to Kurt's tomorrow.

.o0o.

When I show up at Kurt's house, I'm glancing over my shoulder constantly. Last time I was here, I had gotten shot at in a drive-by hate-crime, so I'm just a wee bit paranoid. Naturally.

But nothing happens. No one even drives on the neighborhood street, and after a minute or so, Burt Hummel answers the door. "So you're Dave Karofsky?" he says with a lopsided grin. "My son's new best friend?"

I hold back a slight blush by running my hand through my hair. It's getting a little long, and my damn curls are springing up. "Uh. I dunno if 'best friend' is the right word for it, but yeah, something like that."

"I heard you got into a fight?" he says with interest as he gestures me inside. I step in, the middle-aged man closing the door behind me. Huh. I'm about as tall as him. I couldda sworn I was taller… oh, wait. That was in another timeline, when I was older. Right, right…

I clear my throat uncomfortably, suddenly hyper-aware of any bruises or scratches still lingering visibly on my body. "Um. Yeah, I guess you could say that. Was more like 'n ambush, though. A whole group of guys – five of them, but two ended up running away – ganged up on me. Older thugs, you know? Lookin' to beat the gay outta the village homo." And I'm idly remembering Kurt's original words to me, _'You can't beat the gay out of me any more than I can beat the ignoramus out of you!'_

Mr. Hummel nods, arms folded over his chest, like he understands. I bet he already has it figured out that Kurt's gay, and he's used to it. He's probably just waiting for Kurt to come out to him. But he seems really accepting, and somehow approving of me for standing up for myself. Which is weird, because I always figured adults hate it when teens get into fights, but I guess self-defense over a ridiculous reason makes it all right. I dunno.

"Well, I'm impressed to say the least. Kurt could use a friend like you." And that just sort of confirms my theory. But really, I don't feel like much of an inspiration or anything. "Kurt! Dave's here!" Mr. Hummel hollers down a hallway, and seconds later Kurt comes traipsing out of a room. I thought he'd be in the basement, but no, if I remember, whenever I heard Finn mention his and Kurt's bedroom being in the basement, it was literally both of theirs. Which means Kurt's bedroom now, I guess, is still upstairs.

"Dave!" Kurt says happily, and he moves to give me a short bro-hug, the sort he probably learned from watching the footballers interact. "No more fights, I hope?"

"No, I totally got into one on the way here. The guy was _huge_ ; he was, like, six feet tall. He called my momma fat, so I took 'em down," I joke, and both the Hummels laugh; the older of the two as he walks away, most likely into the kitchen. It's about lunchtime. Meanwhile, his son gazes up at me, amused.

"Well, I hope you put him in the hospital; calling someone's mother obese is definitely worthy of a hospital visit," he jokes right back, and breezes past me into the living room. "What movie would you like to watch?" he wants to know.

I shrug. "Dunno. Whatever you want. I'm not real picky with movies so long as they don't bore me to death with mushy-girly romance."

"Aw, but I love mushy-girly romance," Kurt teases with a fake pout. "I love it when they make me cry."

…At least, I hope he's teasing. I raise a brow. "Please tell me you're kidding."

He laughs, one of his fingers scanning the DVDs on the shelf as his eyes read the titles. I can see his profile really well from here; his nose is so unique, and so… well, kinda cute. I shake the thought away as Kurt's voice penetrates the short-lived silence. "I am, for the most part. But if the storyline is good, I can't lie and say I haven't indulged in some 'chick-flicks,'" he tells me. His eyes light up, brows shooting upward, as he smiles and tips the edge of a DVD into his hand. "Ah! Here we are." He pivots and shows me the cover. " _The Breakfast Club._ It's a good movie to watch casually while chatting and devouring junk food."

"What if I actually want to pay attention to it? I mean, I've never seen it, or heard of it, so –"

He looks shocked. "What? You've never _heard of_ or _seen The Breakfast Club_? Dave! I'm highly disappointed in both you and your parents. This is something I was raised on; it's a classic 1980's coming-of-age film that just about every teenager ever needs to experience at some point," he relays fervently. He's even gesturing with his hands, making a show of it.

"…Is it some sort of musical?" I mutter, because musicals aren't my thing, for the most part. Some are cool, I guess (like _Sweeny Todd_ ; that one's pretty badass, and I'm not just saying that because it features Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter), but others (like _Hairspray_ or some shit)… not so much my thing.

"…Dear Prada. You _do_ need to be educated on '80s films, don't you? That settles it, then: we're definitely watching this one. And no, we won't talk, because you do need to pay attention," he states firmly, and places the DVD into the player. He then walks past me, into the kitchen, flippantly adding as he goes, "Would you like something to drink? Eat?"

"Popcorn," I say, because I always have popcorn with my movies, always. "Mixed with Cheetos if you have them."

"We do. My father is addicted," Kurt chuckles to himself, his voice sounding from a place I can't see. I awkwardly stumble around the room, glancing here and there at things, before I make my way over to the couch and plop down onto it. "What about a drink?"

"Uh. Anything's fine," I say, and I can hear shuffling in the kitchen, and the sound of the microwave being opened, closed, and activated. "Water. Soda. Whatever."

"We have Coke Zero. That okay?" comes Mr. Hummel's voice, and I feel so useless and spoiled being the guest, because now both of them are bringing me stuff. Uh. Why is it that being at friends houses always makes me feel weird? And it's weirder, since this is _Kurt Hummel's_ house where I'm being waited on hand and foot. I used to bully him. He used to hate me. But by this weird stroke of luck and chance and sheer opportunity, I'm here as a welcome friend. It's trippy, but really, really awesome.

"That's totally fine," I say, even though I kinda despise diet pop. But if it tastes similar, I'll be cool with it.

Kurt comes in about a minute later, bowl and cans in hand. He sets the bowl down on the coffee table in front of us, then hands me a soda. Just like with the pencil in class, his fingers purposely touch mine. I don't mind. They're cold from the soda can, but they feel soft to the touch and a little bony, but it's enough to make that tingle shoot up again, my heart skipping a single beat.

"Thanks," I murmur, and Kurt sends a smile before sitting down beside me (a hair too closely to be 'just friends'). He grabs the remote and presses play, and soon, we're both just sitting there, watching together. Chuckling when appropriate, but when it comes to the scene near the end where they're all swapping stories, I'm reminded a hair too sharply of people from school.

Claire reminds me of a mix between Quinn Fabray and Rachel Berry, or a female version of Kurt.

Bender reminds me of Puck.

The jerk teacher in charge, Dick, reminds me of a male version of Sue.

Allison, the weird emo-like girl, reminds me a bit of Tina in clothing but Brittany in weirdness.

And the jock, Andy, reminds me a bit of myself.

And it scares me, because his story is about bullying this one kid really badly – although I did laugh at first when said, "tapes his buns together," 'cause that just sounds weird, but… but this Andy guy tries so hard to be popular, even doing horrible things to be liked by the other jocks, when he's really not that bad of a guy deep down. That's kinda how I feel. Have felt. Whatever. _And the similarity scares me._

Once the movie's over, I have to go to the bathroom. Diet pop goes right through me. But as I move to get up, I jostle Kurt a little, and he tumbles sideways into my lap. He had been asleep, apparently.

I stiffen immediately, trying to keep calm. Okay, okay. This is normal, okay… Yeah, we're both gay and I know that he likes me, but he's asleep, so he isn't aware that his head in on my chest and one of his arms is resting on my thigh and that half of his back is pressed against my abdomen. He doesn't realize how much contact is going on here.

But I guess this explains why he was so quiet the entire time.

"Kurt," I whisper sharply. I raise my voice louder, repeating his name. "Kurt!"

"Huh?" he says sleepily, then realizes his position – as I'm trying to push him off of me without hurting him – and his face goes red and he bolts upward, standing from the couch. "I better put the DVD away," he says, excusing himself, and I smile lopsidedly at the whole thing. I'm nearly on the brink of laughing, but I contain myself.

"It's still early," I say aloud, watching him avoid me a bit as he takes the roundabout way across the room as he carries out he task. "Wanna go out?"

He freezes, turns, smiles, and I realize that what I said must've sounded like I was asking him out on a date. I'm about to protest and add that we're still only friends, but he beats me to the punch. "Where to?" he wonders, "Because after my accidental power nap, I'm up for anything."

"Um… I dunno… you like… books?" I propose lamely, feeling stupid as I stand and shove my hands in my pockets to feel more secure. I lick my lips, a nervous habit I can't seem to help even when I want to. I pretend not to notice how Kurt's eyes ever so briefly flicker to my mouth as I do it. Then, his eyes back on mine, I mutter uncomfortably, "I mean… I know you like magazines; you always have a Vogue one hidden under your books, and there are those there. And real books, too, in case you read. I dunno."

"You're so thoughtful, David," Kurt remarks wittily as he steps around me to grab his coat. "And observant. Yeah, sure, let's go. I'll just tell my dad to drop us off and pick us up later."

Shit. Right. Because we can't drive yet. Damn, I forgot how stranded I was as a freshman! Else I could've driven instead. But no, he and I still have to lean on our parents for rides. That sucks; it makes things less free, less intimate, less spontaneous. I will never take driving for granted again.

It takes a little convincing, but Burt agrees to drive us to the bookstore. He even makes an attempt to slip Kurt some extra cash to buy me a coffee, but I catch him and insist that, "I'm fine, I don't need it; but thanks for thinking of me."

And he's real nice about it, saying, "Suit yourself. I'll see you boys in an hour, all right?"

Kurt nods, I nod, and Kurt waves his dad goodbye, uttering a quick, "Love you!" at the end. Then he turns to me, grabs me by the hand, and tugs me inside.

Oh, God. Please don't let anyone notice that he's holding my hand, even if it's just for the short moment that he drags me into the store and down an aisle. Please. I don't want him outed because of me. It just wouldn't be fair, since he never once outed me. And this is a repeat thought of mine, but it really matters to me; I know better than anyone how frightening it is to worry about being discovered. And Kurt might not act like he cares, but he does. I know it. I can tell by the way he acts sometimes. Still, I wonder how much looser he is about coming out simply because I've already done it, and I'm his friend (perhaps also his gay role model?) and all that jazz.

He drops my hand and picks up a magazine. "Look, this month's issue is out! And he features some stuff about one of my favorite actresses! I need to get this," he says excitedly, his tone bubbly and giddy, something I don't really think I've heard come from him before. He's almost… breathless with glee. It's sort of… stunning.

My gaze on him softens and a loose smile takes over my lips. "Then get it. I'll be over in the comic book section while you peruse the mags, 'kay?"

"Aw, come on, Dave, don't just leave me here. What sort of friend _are_ you?" he teases, glancing at me with a falsely pouting expression.

"The kind that ditches others in favor of his own desires," I say fluidly, and fuck, this better not be considered flirting. But I think it is. _Fuck._

Kurt grins. "Well then, by all means, abandon me forever for your picture-books. I'll just have to be all by my lonesome with all these celebrities." He's suddenly distracted as he gestures at the magazine, one in particular catching his eye. "Oh!" he gasps, and snatches the magazine. "Ohmigod. These fashions. I must try them!"

I shake my head at him. "Kurt, sometimes you make me wonder." And I don't elaborate, even as he stares at me and asks what I mean. I just shrug and walk away, headed in the direction of some DC and Marvel. And, by association, I guess the Japanese stuff, too. It's all in the graphic novel section of the bookstore.

But honestly, sometimes Kurt makes me wonder how he hasn't come out already, since he's so g'damn obvious about being fruity. Or maybe he just lets his guard down around me since he knows I'm gay, too? I dunno. Probably doesn't matter.

"David, aren't you going to wait for me?" Kurt says, acting up being upset with the bitchiness he adds playfully to his tone.

"I'm waiting, I'm waiting," I say, and he shuffles on the carpet up next to me, two magazines in hand. He elbows me in the side.

He sticks his nose into the air slightly, his chin tilting upward. "Jerk. You really were going to ditch me for comic books."

"That was the plan," I smirk, and he pouts his lips, frowns, and punches me weakly in the arm. "Ow!" I fib, because he doesn't need to know that he hits like a girl, so it doesn't hurt me at all.

"You're such a bully, Dave," he says, smiling. My face falls. He notices the change and corrects himself. "Er… I only mean in a goofy, like-the-way-an-older-cousin-harasses-his-younger-cousins way."

"…So we're suddenly like cousins now?" I say, and I can't help the scrunched-up look of confusion with a touch of distaste that consumes my face. A cousin or brotherly relationship is far from what I want.

"Oops! No! I didn't mean it like that, I only…" he frowns, his lips pursing as he raises the magazines in his arms to cover half of his face. "Forget I said anything," he grumbles behind the glossy covers, and he turns and storms off in the direction of the coffee house section of the store.

I shake my head. Okay, this is just too weird. Kurt is being extremely… different… but in a kinda good, kinda understandable way. And all because of me? That's just… impossible. And flattering. And amazing.

I don't even bother to look at the comics. Instead, I make my way over to Kurt and smile, telling him that it's all right, I don't care, and I know what he meant. He looks relieved, and as we sit down at a table, a coffee in his hands, he sets down the magazines and mutters quietly, "Dave, why are we friends?"

I shrug. "I dunno, beats me. Ever since that day in the library we've been friends, I guess. We've hung out a few times, we talk in class, we eat lunch together. It just happened."

"Yes, I realize this, but _why_?" he repeats for emphasis, and he isn't looking at me. He hasn't looked at me since he sat down. "We don't have much in common. You like sports, I don't. You like action films and video games, and I like musicals and fashion. We're not alike at all. So why are we friends?"

"I think because you're nice to me, and it's something I don't get very often. And I stand up for you and your friends, which is something you've never really had before. And, well… we have something else in common," I hint, referring to our common sexuality, but I don't give him the chance to ask what I mean. Instead, I change the subject by reaching out and picking up one of his magazines. "I don't understand why you like reading these things so much. Half the junk in here is exactly that: junk. Total crap. Like, rumors and rippin' going on the celebs and then little tips about hair and makeup and matching up clothing. It's stupid."

"It's not stupid! Appearances are very important," Kurt retorts defensively. He frowns at me. "Don't you think so?"

I shake my head. "No, not really. I mean, half the time I hate how I look, but that's just my teenage low self-esteem and human nature. But that doesn't mean I think looks matter. I see people who they are at face-value."

"Is that so?" Kurt murmurs, genuine curiosity in his tone. Louder, clearer, he inquires, "What do you think of when you see me, then?"

My lips tighten as I try to think of something friend-appropriate to say. "Uh, well… when I look at you, I see you trying too hard to be liked. You dress in clothes that are probably too expensive – Marc Jacobs and McQueen and all that shit – and you always are clutching your shoulder bag for dear life, which tells me you're trying to protect yourself behind your looks. But you don't need all that stuff, Kurt. The hair gel, the skin care products, the fancy clothes. You're fine all by yourself. You're funny and smart and even if it's a bit of a façade, you're brimming with confidence. And you can sing."

He looks extremely flattered and humbled and touched for a moment, then a slight frown reaches his brows. "…How did you know I could sing?" he says, catching my mistake. Shit.

"Uh, er… you sing sometimes under your breath in class," I say, quickly realizing that it's as good excuse as any; I do see him lip syncing while he works, anyway.

"Oh," he says, accepting this. He must trust me a great deal to just accept it without questioning it further. Unless he is, mentally, and just doesn't want to voice it? I dunno. Although I do see that his cheeks are a little pink, so maybe I did something right?

After our remaining time is up and I'm being dropped off at home, Kurt seems particularly happy as he says goodbye to me.

And I just can't believe that I get to have this. That this is all mine: Kurt being happy, and all because of me. I thought it earlier, and I keep thinking of it again and again. This is my doing. Kurt is happy because I'm not bullying him, and he won't leave for Dalton later, and he won't hate me, and he actually likes me. And all because I changed things. Because I decided to stop being a dick and be more like myself, the person I am at home, the person I was, the person I could have been and am trying to be. It's all dizzying and unreal and like an out-of-body experience, but it also goes straight home, to my core. And it's burning there, in a warm, solid manner. I like the feeling.

The closest I felt to this before was when I was doing Thriller/Heads Will Roll with everybody, and people were cheering. I felt on top. And I feel on top again, and it's addicting.

I don't ever want it to end.

Except…

In the back of my mind, in the darker corners, there's this nagging, chilling, incessant fear I have that's the anxious feeling you get when you're waiting for the axe to fall. I just have this sinking feeling back there, beneath all the love and contentment that something really bad is going to happen soon, so I'll jump again for some reason, or that this is actually all a dream and I really am just… dead.

.o0o.

Fast-forward to finals, on the last day of school of my freshman year.

I've spent this entire year being best friends with Kurt Hummel, and incidentally, part of this huge group we've formed that includes Kurt and I, Mercedes, Tina, Azimio, and Rachel Berry.

She joined us after second semester began, just as determined and headstrong and self-centered as ever, but really sweet to us, too, and also very motivational. She said she mentioned to Mr. Shuester to start a Glee Club for next year if it gets approved, and she said that she's heard Mercedes singing along with whatever she was listening to on her iPod before and thought it might mean she'd want to join next year when the club's started. Mercedes had agreed. And maybe because of what I told him before, Kurt agreed to try out, too. And I nodded, because I wanted to do it again. I secretly loved Glee Club. I made fun of it a lot in the past (other future?), but it's actually extremely fun and rewarding.

So that's how we befriended Rachel Berry: at lunch over a proposition, and since then, she gained us as friends since she didn't have any before.

In fact, Rachel's one of my closest friends now. She came to me before spring break and asked if she could talk to me. It went like this:

"David? Can I talk to you for a minute?" she asked, not a trace of a smile on her face, her hands clasped together in front of her.

"Um, sure? What's up? You look kinda freaked," I stated with puckered brows in puzzlement.

She cleared her throat and sat down in front of me. We were in the computer lab; I was working on a paper that was due the last Friday before spring break, which was that Friday. It was a study hall period, so that was the only reason why I could be there.

"David, did you know that my parents are a pair of gay men?" she began, looking at me earnestly, her nearly black, dark chocolate eyes piercing into mine.

"Yeah," I said, because I did know. Lots of people did, still do. It's just one of those little facts that circulates always, just something that's known about a person.

She had nodded. "And I know that you're gay, too."

"Yeah," I restated, and I was officially intrigued by the conversation, my body turning in my seat, hands falling away from the keyboard, to look at her.

"I know I only sit with you and your friends at lunch because I don't have many other places to go unless I want to be alone, but… I really want us to be friends. I could probably understand you more than anyone, and I think we may have more in common than you might think. I mean, I'm destined to be a star, it's just a fact, but you're pretty dead-set on success, too, aren't you? Except your success isn't school- or fame-oriented. You're just trying to belong, find someone to love, be yourself through all the struggles. Like that fight last semester I heard you got into," she offered, staring at me, her eyes searching for response.

I gave it to her through an uneasy licking of my lips and a curt nod of my head. "I'm not gonna lie, Berry. You're dead-on." I'm _still_ seeking that placement, and I think I'm nearly there. And I want Kurt to be with me. I want it more than anything. I didn't have it as my main goal to begin with, but it's my goal now. He's the reason why I keep going through these jumps, suffering through pain of death and mistake after mistake; he's become my motivation, my reason. It's a little pathetic and hopelessly romantic and makes me feel like a girl, but it's the truth.

She had understood all this, all that I've left unspoken, and what she said next made my breathing hitch and my heart stop for a second. "I know. I've seen the way you look at him; you've fallen hard, haven't you? But you seem too scared to do anything about it. He's worth the risk, David. I don't know him that well, but I know all about my dads' romance, and I can promise you that it'll work out if you just make a move," she said, and a small smile grew on her lips. "He's very attractive. You have good taste. I just feel bad for Mercedes, because I think she has a crush on him, but I know how a gay guy acts, and he's it, so she seems out of luck. Plus… he seems fond of you. He looks at you when you're not looking, and he usually smiles a little when he does it."

I could feel my ears burning. "I don't know what you're babbling on about, Berry, but you better stop it," I told her lowly, but not threateningly.

She giggled a bit in the back of her throat. "Don't get grumpy with me, David Karofsky. I am highly intuitive, and I know what I'm talking about, even if you're in denial about it. But it's a good thing, okay? Believe me when I tell you it's a very, very good thing. Just give it room and time and let it grow." She stood then, leaned over before I could stop her, and pecked me on the head, right on top of my hair.

She ruffled the short curls and did nothing but smile as I shot in her fleeting direction, "What the hell, Berry? You're so fucking weird!" Kissing me like that, when we're hardly friends? Made me feel like a child.

Huffing like the kid I apparently was, I went back to typing, although I punched every key angrily with my fingertips.

Currently, however, Rachel and I talk on the phone at least three times a week, sometimes more. She's trying to help me with Kurt, because after I explained to her once about how I don't want to out him before he's ready (since that's cruel and whatnot) to which she agreed with, she's been trying to help me get closer to him so that he'll feel comfortable being out.

We're actually having one of those conversations right now.

"You could always protect him once he's out, in case people think they can pick on him since he's… smaller," she says, and she isn't inferring that I'm heavy or anything, only that I have much more brawn, which is utterly true.

"Yeah, I could," I agree quietly, "But it'll be a little silly if we start dating after he does. Honestly, the only two gays at the school and they're together? It's kind of… I dunno, _something_ ," I reply with a sigh.

"Too cliché? Too convenient? A tad ridiculous? Somewhat pathetic?" she supplies adjectives, all the while sounding disapproving. "No, Dave. None of those things, and I know those are the words you're thinking of. It might seem weird, but I like to think of it as romantic destiny," she sighs dreamily.

"…I swear, Rachel, you are so fucking annoying," I retort with a snort, but there's a smile in my voice.

She giggles. "And yet you tolerate me each and every day, even on the phone when you don't have to. Why are you so polite, Dave?" she jokes.

"Shut up," I laugh.

"Anyway, I think with the school year ending, you should pull a Grease and have a summer lovin'. – And don't try to argue with me, David. I mean it. Woo Kurt over the summer, ask him out, do something! We're fifteen, one foot into our sophomore year now that finals are this week, and I know he likes you, and you like him, and all this dancing around is getting you two anywhere! Plus, everyone seems used to you being gay – they don't like it, but they've learned not to bring it up around you – so if you're with Kurt, they should all deal with it and not bug him since you'll be by his side. It works out, Dave, I swear. I can promise you, just like I did that day in the computer lab, that it works out. So stop being a big baby and go get 'im!" she says, a cheerful fighting spirit in her tone. I can just picture her doing a mini swing of the arm, fist clenched, and elbow locked at an angle in front of her.

I sigh, a tad reluctant, but then an overwhelming sense of confidence and urgency and sureness fills me like a bright flame. I grin broadly. "You know what, Rachel? I think you've got a point. A very keen, accurate point. So I'm gonna do it."

"Any time, big guy," she says softly, and I can picture her smiling. She giggles suddenly. "Underneath your exterior, you're such a teddy bear," she remarks.

I instantly narrow my eyes at her over the phone. "I am not. That sounds so sissy! Shut the fuck up, Berry."

She just laughs. "Bye, Dave," she says.

I smile a bit. "Yeah. Bye, Rache. Insults aside… thanks, really," I tell her.

She sounds surprised by my gratitude as she replies, "You're… very welcome, Dave," a light smile in her tone. And then she says goodbye one final time before hanging up.

I put my home phone back on its charger, surprised that Rachel and I have been talking for over thirty minutes. That usually happens with us, but it never happens with anyone else I ever talk to. I'm surprised that I'm able to carry a conversation that long; I don't usually talk much. But then again, Rachel usually does most of the talking, so I guess it makes sense. Still, she really can be a good friend, despite what lots of people think of her.

.o0o.

On the last day of finals, they pass out our report cards and wish us a great summer before releasing us. I finish my test, and as I turn it in, my teacher smiles at me.

"I hope to see you in my math class again next year," the teacher says. He gives me a solid pat on the back as I walk by, laughing and nodding my head. "You're a great student. Have an awesome summer!"

"I will, Mr. Mauck," I say with my back to him as I wave over my shoulder, already out the door.

The bell is ringing; people are cheering that school's out for the summer as they bustle past, papers flying here and there.

Kurt suddenly appears at my locker, everything he needs already in his arms. "Hey, Dave," he says, smiling warmly. "Wanna hang out today? My dad said I could walk around town after school for a few hours today if I wanted to, since he'll be working late at the shop. I was going to go to the shop after getting some ice cream, but I wondered if you'd like to join me." He pauses. "Azimio, Mercedes, and Rachel are coming along, too," he adds at the last second, right as my eyebrow is raising in suspicion, silently asking if he had intended for it to be a date. Not so, it seems, since some of the girls are coming, along with Mercedes' boyfriend-for-a-while-now, my pal Az. It's weird watching those two interact; they almost don't get along, kind of like Kurt and I sometimes, but they somehow work and haven't broken up yet, so… yeah. I guess relationships are complicated.

Like Kurt's and mine.

"Sure, yeah; I could totally go for some ice cream. Are we all meeting up at DQ?" It's become a favorite place of ours.

"Yeah. And if we hang out long enough, we might just go get something to eat for dinner. I'm sure you're hoping for KFC in your head right now, Dave – I can see it in the look on your face right now – but we might get some pizza instead." Kurt informs me as I shrug on my backpack and shut my empty locker. I toss a bunch of papers that have accumulated in the metal box for the entire second half of the year and dump them in a nearby trashcan (they leave them out in the hallways on the last day of school for lock clean-outs and for the garbage man).

"Damn, you caught me," I joke, because I honestly had thought of KFC immediately. I can't help it if I fucking love fried chicken and potatoes. Guess I'm just all-American that way. "But I'll settle for pizza. It's my second favorite. And everyone can always agree on pizza."

"So true," he chuckles. "We are teenagers after all. I always associate teenagers and pizza because of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles."

"Same here," I agree with a smile. On our way out of the building, someone rides by on his bike, shouting 'fags!' really loudly, and then speeding up his pace so that I can't chase him even if I wanted to, 'cause he's already too far for me to ever catch up. I growl lowly, "God dammit! Why the fuck –? Coward!"

Kurt looks pissed, but he's breathing slowly in and out, then turning to me with an assuring expression on his face. He lays a hand on my shoulder and tells me, "Let it go, Dave. They're just ignorant bastards. I'd like to see their faces if they ever found out the history behind that word."

I frown and cock my head. "History? You know, I never knew the history behind it. I know every word has a meaning and history behind it, but just where in the world did 'faggot' come from? It's, like, such an ugly word, and so _stupid_ sounding!"

I've used it before, and I still feel guilty about it. But I haven't really used it in this reality, so I feel like it's safe to ask. Plus, I'm a changed man now, so I won't be using it again as an insult any time soon.

Kurt sighs, walking down the sidewalk into town alongside me. "It's not very pretty."

"I didn't think it would be. Just tell me," I say.

Kurt sighs. "One day, I heard that word on TV. My dad told me it was really offensive, and when I asked why, he told me to look it up because he wasn't entirely sure, except that it really hurts gays to hear it. So I went online and searched the word. Lots of things came up, but one website told me its original meaning." He shudders. "Do you remember the witch hunts? Like Salem, and before that, in the medieval days?"

"Yeah…" I say cautiously, "But what does that have to do with homosexuals?"

"Well, people often associated witches with anti-Christian beliefs, since they worked outside of God most of the time. They also associated homosexuals with the same principles, since it says in the Bible that 'man shalt not lay with other man the say way he lies with woman,' or something to that effect," he explain s slowly, sounding bitter – I know that he's an Atheist – and a little cold about the topic. "Because of this, when they burned witches for being unholy, sometimes they would burn gays as well. There were these special types of sticks they used to burn witches at the stake. Those sticks were called 'faggots.' And when they ran out of sticks to burn the witches with… they used homosexuals, since they thought there were just as low as timber for committing sodomy." He shakes his head, and I realize that there are angry tears in the corners of his eyes. "That's why the term is so offensive. It's because of this history that gays associate the word 'fag' with death, and are afraid of it."

"Holy fucking shit," I whisper, my voice torn between being outraged, heavy with a wash of sickening guilt, and terrified. Also a bit shocked. "That's just… I mean… _fuck."_

"Yeah, exactly," Kurt sighs with more weight than I feel in guilt, since he's technically still closeted at this point. "And people wonder why so many gays keep quiet about their sexualities."

"I…" I begin, but then change my direction. "Kurt, that's so _wrong._ Just… all of it. I know they killed gays during the Holocaust, too, and it… it just has to _stop!_ It shouldn't have to be this way. All the name-calling, the fear, the prejudice and secrets. Tons of people in the world are totally okay with gays, so why can't everybody else just chill? It's not that big of a fucking deal! I mean, people live their lives, like what they like, do what they do, and die. It's not like a huge fucking problem to be a little different in one certain way," I grind out through teeth clenched in frustration, anger, pain, and more guilt. I really believe this, now. Now that I've tried and done being the gay guy I used to always fear I shouldn't be, I've realized how true what I just said is.

Kurt stares at me for a long, long moment, seemingly awestruck and inspired and in complete agreement with me. "Right," he says quietly. "Why can't people simply calm down and take it as something that happens?" He bites his lip. The entire time I've known him, I've only heard Kurt deny being gay whenever he thought I wasn't there or listening, and whenever someone called him out on it. But moments like these… he doesn't deny it, just agrees with me. But he seems to fail to realize that by doing so, he's kind of confirming his sexuality. Not by the words he speaks, but by the facial expressions and other reactions he makes.

We don't say much of anything else until we're at Dairy Queen, and even then, things are causal. Mercedes and Azimio argue about who should pay, since he feels he should pay for his girlfriend but she's insisting that she's a girl who can take care of her own treat-buying since it's small and not even a real date, and yadda yadda. They agree to just pay for themselves since this is a friend outing, and then kiss briefly to make up for getting pissy with each other.

Rachel, meanwhile, talks to Kurt while this is going on. They're talking about some Broadway musical or another, and I'm just minding my own business, getting ice cream, when Rachel turns to me and whispers something in my ear.

"Kurt is thinking about asking you to sleep over at his house next week. There's your chance, Dave! Don't disappoint me."

And as she pulls away, joining in the conversation Mercedes and Kurt initiated when the brunette had turned to me, I can see a wink and a smile geared toward me come and go on her face.

Dammit, Rachel! What if I'm not ready for this? Ever think about that? I like being his friend, and I don't want to fuck that up. We talk about deep stuff sometimes – God, family, losses, school stress, and just today, the meaning behind offensive terms – and we're really close. I don't want to ruin it. I love him – I somehow become more in love with him each passing moment he and I are together – but I'm scared. I don't want to lose him, or lose this lovely reality, or do something stupid. I don't want regrets.

I want to tell her all of this, but I can't; not here, not now. Later, maybe, but I did agree to go after him. She made such a good point before… I'm having doubts, however. Extremely awful doubts.

I bite my lip, busy myself with eating my ice cream, but it doesn't taste as pleasant any longer.

Dammit.

After ice cream, we're all walking to another store, when Kurt falls in step beside me and asks, "Hey, want to sleep over for a marathon of video gaming next Thursday?"

I know he doesn't like video games that much, and he sucks at them, but he knows that I like them and I like to play against him simply because he sucks so bad at it, and it'd be fun to mess around and talk and stuff. I inhale sharply. "Uh…" I let out the breath, "Yeah, 'course. I'll bring some stuff, and we can get high on sugar and caffeine and stay up all night. What time do you want me to come over?"

"Fantastic! Come over at three." He grins brightly, dimple and twinkling eyes and all.

It'll be our first official sleepover, since I've always declined staying the night or past curfew (the legal one; my parents don't give me a curfew) out of fear of doing something I'd regret. But I need to not think about that. As many doubts as I have, I need to remember and follow through on what Rachel said, and what I told her I'd do.

'Cause let's face it: who knows when I'll have these sorts of opportunities again? This could be (and I pray it is) my last jump, but if not, I need to make the most of these somewhat peaceful times.


	9. Chapter 9

_It's unnerving,_

_Those thoughts you get as you pull into the driveway of a friend's house,_

_About to sleep over for the first time._

_You know how you are in the mornings._

_Your family knows how you are in the mornings._

_Greasy in that unshowered way –_

_Kinda smelly from when your deodorant wore off over night –_

_And your hair is sticking up in random places_

_And your breath reeks._

_But you've never shared this with a friend before!_

_And now you have to with a sleepover,_

_And it's going to be weird._

_But for me, all of this is intensified_

_Because I'm in love with the friend whose house I'm staying over at._

_Fucking dammit._

My dad drops me off at Kurt's house, and spends a good twenty minutes chatting it up with Kurt's dad, which is really awkward; I hate it when parents get friendly with each other! It's humiliating. It makes me wish that I was twenty-three again, so that I could avoid all of this. Or hell, even sixteen with a license; that works, too.

The second I enter through the door, though, Kurt is right in front of me, smiling, breathless, as if he had run to the door. "Hey, Dave," he greets, and he lets me inside. "Come on, you can drop your stuff off in my room."

Oh God, his _bedroom._ No, Dave, don't think anything dirty. Just… act like your age. Awkward fifteen-year-old. Don't think anything about his bed or how he might masturbate in it sometimes or wonder if he dreams about you when he lays in that bed or if he does what you do, walks into the room with only a towel on to get dressed in the mornings, and –

_Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck._ See, I wouldn't be thinking these things if I didn't like him! I mean, normal friends don't think about these things, right? It's just me, because I'm fucking weird and a horny teenage boy and in love with Kurt. Right? Right…

_Fuck._

The second I enter his room, I get this gust of scent that's pure _Kurt_. It just… reeks of his smell, all of it. The brief moments I've hugged him or caught a whiff, this is what it smells like, but amplified. It's like the smell of his laundry/clothes mixed with his shampoo/hair gel and then whatever his natural smell or lotion-y scent is. All rolled into one, and just… everywhere. All as soon as he opens the door and flicks on the light to let me inside.

I rub my nose to try and adjust it to the scent to make it lessen in intensity. Or maybe I'm just hypersensitive to all things Kurt. I dunno. It's just… all around me, and I kind of never want to leave this room, now.

"Where will I be sleeping?" I ask, holding up my sleeping bag.

Kurt shrugs. "I have a full-sized bed. You could just sleep with me. That's okay, isn't it?"

_Um._

Is he kidding me?

"Uh… n-no, Kurt. I don't really think… er, that is… girls can sleep together like that, and little boys can, but, like… two teenage guys in the same bed? That's not right," I tell him, and he looks either disappointed or confused for a second; I'm not sure which. I think confused. I think he honestly didn't realize it'd be such a bad or unusual thing. He is only fourteen at the moment; his birthday is in August. I remember hearing him mention a summer pool party to Mercedes a couple weeks back.

"Oh," he murmurs, and his face tints pink as he glances away, turning to glance around the room. He gestures to a spot on his floor at the foot of his bed. "There okay?"

"Yeah, there's fine," I reply, my own ears burning. I just… don't even want to think of sharing a bed with Kurt, and how tempted I'd be in the middle of the night to roll over and hold him, pretending it's an accident born out of a dream, or to touch his face while he slept, or to kiss him. I'll be tempted to do the last two I listed anyway by being in the same room, but being inches from him in a bed? So much worse in the temptation department. I shiver a little while thinking about it.

"Okay. Um. Anyway… I promised you some video gaming. I recently bought Rock Band and some American Idol game. Want to sing and play a little?" he suggests. "It's more in my league than Call of Duty."

"Uh… sure. I can play the guitar in Rock Band since it's the same as Guitar Hero. But the singing in American Idol… that's against one another like the show is, right?" I wonder aloud.

"Obviously. What else would it be?" Kurt says with a roll of his eyes.

I shrug, feeling foolish. Of course it's competitive singing. "I dunno. But Kurt, I can't sing. Not really, anyway. You really don't want to hear it." I rub the back of my neck reflectively.

"Of course I do! Come on, Dave, don't act like a stick in the mud on me. I'm curious to hear how you sing. I bet you're pretty good. You have a nice speaking voice when you aren't angry, anyhow," he remarks, then looks mortified, eyes widened and all. "Gucci, did I just say that aloud? Sorry. Totally uncalled for."

"No… no, that's okay," I reply, staring at him for a moment. "Thanks." I smile at him then, one that's a cross between underlying flirtation and simply being humbled. I raise a brow. "You really think I have a nice speaking voice?"

He grins humorously. "Definitely. You could record an audiobook with a voice like that," he jokes.

I laugh, chin tucking into my chest for a second before my head whips back and I calm down. "God. That'd be weird; especially if it was, like, a romance novel."

"Oh my God," he mutters, "Or Twilight."

"Fuck. I'd never go near fucking Twilight," I grimace. "If I narrated for Bella, she's sound even more cracked up than she already is. And I'd sound even gayer than I am, gushing over Edward."

"Jacob's better," Kurt remarks off-handedly.

I smirk. "Take it you read the books, huh?"

"…Only the first two, back when it wasn't a craze and just a book. I liked Jacob. He was sweet, and warm. Literally." He smiles a little. "If I was Bella, I'd rather be with someone warm than someone cold. That's always the argument that makes me think she'd be better off with Jacob. Besides, what guy leaves you for your own good? That's so cliché. I'd rather have a best friend with me than some loser boyfriend who doesn't even love me enough to stay."

I tilt my head at him, and feeling a little bold, I venture cautiously, "Gee, Kurt, if I didn't know any better, it sounds like to me you want Jacob all for yourself. That's pretty gay, man. And I know gay."

Kurt goes really pink, but not red. He looks defensive and defiant and bitchy, a look I'm completely accustomed to from the days when I bullied him in that other timeline of my life. He places his hands on his hips. "No way! I… I'm not…" He looks flustered, frustrated. With a huff, he turns on his heel and starts marching down the hallway. "Let's go play Rock Band," he insists coldly.

Oops. Blew it! Dammit, I shouldn't have tried that. I just… if I want to get with him this summer like Rachel suggested, I need to make a move, I need to… to…

Shit. I better not have to forcefully kiss him again. If that winds up being a reoccurring theme in my life, then I might as well quit now while I'm ahead, 'cause I don't think I could stand another rejection/non-reciprocation. Tch.

"What song would you like to do?" Kurt asks as he sets up the game, including the mic and everything. He hands me a plastic guitar and brings the song list up on the screen. "I know I'd love anything Queen, but I don't know what your tastes are."

I don't say anything for a second. I see plenty of good bands on there, half of which I don't even think Kurt would ever listen to. But one song catches my eye. I nod to it. "That one. Nightwish, 'Nemo.' It's a combination of rock and opera, so it should sound pretty good with your high voice and be pretty epic with my Guitar Hero guitar skills," I grin. My smile falls. "Uh… unless you don't know the song at all. I know how difficult it can be to sing along to a song karaoke-style that you've never sung before."

"No, I've sang it before," Kurt correctly mildly. He selects the song using my guitar for a minute to press a button. He doesn't take the object from my hands, though; he leans backward and reaches over, brushing my waiting fingers aside. Turning back to his microphone, the song starting up, Kurt says quickly, "I actually like Nightwish and Evanescence. It's darker music than what I usually go for, but the women's voices are beautiful and compliment mine pretty well, singing-wise," he says, and then it's time for him to start singing, so he does.

All the while I'm playing behind him, I can't take my eyes off of his hips, the way they're jerking every now and then as he taps his foot in time with the metal beat. I keep fudging up because of this, only being saved by how flawlessly Kurt's hitting the notes.

It's a good thing I know the song, or else I wouldn't know what the hell Kurt was singing, being too preoccupied with everything else but the lyrics. The sound of his voice, the way he's moving… Now I remember why he's always been so g'damn appealing to me.

I shake the thoughts away like erasing an Etch-N-Sketch. _Shht, shht, shht_ ; there, mind clear. Just focus on the notes of the toy guitar, Dave. Kurt's already had to save your slowed reactions already with his epic note-hitting.

He glances back at me when I mess up, as if expecting me to be way better than this. I usually am; but how can I focus with him around like this? I swear, this is slow torture. Fuckin' A. I hate being in love sometimes.

We play three more rounds, switching on and off with song selections. Finally, we switch to the American Idol game, and I'm nervously taking the mic as Kurt insists that I go first, since he needs to "rest his voice" after all the singing he's already done.

Shrugging, I agree. What harm could it do?

I choose a song at random – 'Renegade' by the Styx comes on – and after a quick clearing of my throat, I watch it count down, and then the song starts immediately with the lyrics. I'm ready. I can do this. I sang in Glee Club before; I can do it again. Okay, okay… Inhale, and:

" _Oh Mama, I'm in fear for my life  
From the long arm of the law." _

Bah-dum, bah-dum; I thump my heel in time with the short interval.  
 _  
"Law man has put an end to my running  
And I'm so far from my home…"_

I wait for it; the music to kick into full aside from solely my singing. I don't look at Kurt, I don't concentrate on anything but the screen before me. I wonder how he's reacting? Am I singing all right?

So time to think. Here come the lyrics again…

"The jig is up, the news is out,  
They finally found me;  
The renegade who had it made  
Retrieved for a bounty;  
Never more to go astray,  
This'll be the end today –  
Of the wanted man…"

I don't stop. Can't stop. I'm really getting into it now, slapping my thigh in time with the beat, closing my eyes on occasion (I have the song memorized anyway, I hardly need the karaoke lyrics in front of me for much more than the timing, but even then, I know when to sing). Smiling a little, I continue:

" _Oh Mama, I've been years on the lam  
And had a high price on my head;  
Lawman said, 'Get him dead or alive'  
And it's for sure he'll see me dead;  
Dear Mama, I can hear you cryin',  
You're so scared and all alone;  
Hangman is comin' down from the gallows  
And I don't have very long…_

" _The jig is up, the news is out  
They finally found me;  
The renegade who had it made  
Retrieved for a bounty;  
Never more to go astray,  
The judge'll have revenge today;  
On the wanted man…"_

And now time for the breakdown of the song. I belt it out with as much emotion as I can, as I want, not even caring if I mess up a note or two. Fuck the virtual judges, I'm having fun! It's like Thriller all over again, except this time, I don't need the roaring crowd to reassure me. I have a different sort of confidence nowadays, and I need the approval of my peers so much less. (I still wonder what Kurt's thinking in this moment, but that's different, and it's out of curiosity, not necessity.)

" _Oh Mama, I'm in fear for my life  
From the long arm of the law;  
Law man has put an end to my running  
And I'm so far from my home…_

" _The jig is up, the news is out;  
They finally found me.  
The renegade who had it made  
Retrieved for a bounty;  
Never more to go astray,  
This'll be the end today…  
Of the wanted man…"_

I complete the song; panting lightly, and with a sideways smile, glance over my shoulder at my friend. I don't even care what the game judges have to say. Kurt's opinion is all that matters. "Did I do well?" I want to know.

He's… gaping at me. In utter shock/awe. His mouth is open, eyes comically widened, brows shooting up nearly into his hairline. He blinks rapidly a couple times, relaxes his brows, and licks his lips as he closes his jaw.

"Wow. I honestly had not expected any of that to come from your mouth, Dave. The lyrics perhaps, but the way you sang them? Not in the least," he says, looking floored.

I nervously twist the cord of the mic, winding it around my fingers. "Is… that a good or a bad thing?"

"Good! Holy Prada, so good. Dave, I had no idea you could sing like that! You're amazing!" he says brightly.

I laugh wholeheartedly. "You're just saying that to make me feel better about this sucky score," I say, gesturing to the screen.

"No, no way! I mean it. You took that song and altered it in all the right ways. The game doesn't like it when you get into the song and change it to suit you. But I do. Dave, you made that song your bitch and turned it into your own thing. It sounded fantastic," Kurt relays with such honesty that I almost want not to believe it.

"I… really? Whoa. Thanks," I say, flattered beyond belief. This must be how authors feel when someone tells them, 'I'm a huge fan of your work!' It feels incredible. Indescribably great, and not just because it's a bit of an ego-booster, but because it makes me take back some of the doubts I had about myself.

"You're joining Glee with us next year, right?" Kurt affirms as he switches places with me for his turn to sing.

"Well, yeah, I guess. I think Rachel would tear my head off if I didn't," I joke, and soon, Kurt's song is selected and he's preparing to sing it. Madonna. Oh, God, no. Please. I… I don't think I can take hearing something else like '4 Minutes.' It was bad enough the first time, watching him shimmy and shake while singing suggestive lyrics and all in a Cheerios uniform. He's dressed in casual wear this time, and the song is 'Frozen,' but it still doesn't help me any.

I smile uncontrollably while Kurt sings, because his voice is just so fucking angelic-beautiful. How does he do that? He's a boy, but he has such range that he sounds great at any set of notes, feminine/falsetto or not. It's mind-blowing.

When he's through, he has a much better score than me. But I don't even mind or care. I just like how he sang it. "Just… wow, Kurt. I'm so jealous of your pipes, dude. How do you do that?"

"I don't know. I've always had a voice like this. And after a few grand concerts in my shower, I guess I've just learned how to control it and put this weird voice of mine to use," he says with a shrug.

"I don't think your voice is weird," I tell him, adding a grin. "If my voice is good enough for an audiobook recording, yours is definitely awesome enough for a CD recording."

"Oh, now you're just trying to get me back for flattering you before," he says with a smirk. "But hey, flattery will get you everywhere, so I'm not complaining. In fact, I think your compliments have earned you some ice cream. Want?"

"Very much," I reply, and follow him into the kitchen.

"Come on, boys, you're not even going to eat dinner first?" Mr. Hummel remarks with a roll of his eyes as he watches Kurt and I reach into the freezer straight away.

"Nope. We're going to splurge on empty calories like the teenage boys we are," Kurt answers fluidly, popping off the lid on the Eddy's carton. He grabs a spoon and a bowl, hands both to me, and gestures for me to help myself. I do. And he even gets out the chocolate syrup – Hershey's special dark, naturally – and I put a big glob right in the center of all of the creamy French vanilla.

"There's nothing more satisfying than this sometimes," I say contentedly as I sit down at the table, Kurt close behind me. He licks his knuckles where his hand brushed the inside walls f the carton as he sits down, and I nearly choke on the bite that entered my mouth at the same moment his lips closed over the back of his hand with a crisp sucking sound.

Holy shit, Kurt. Don't do this to me, _please._ I know you don't remember, but you've teased me with ice cream before, and it isn't fucking fun for me, okay? Sexual frustration of that of a fifteen-year-old and a twenty-three-year-old at the same time between my brain and body, raging war, is definitely not cool. Hot _damn_ …

But he's completely oblivious this time. He simply hums 'Renegade' to himself in between bites of ice cream. Halfway through his serving, he remembers to put the ice cream and syrup away. When he's done, he engages in conversation with me again about Glee club and being excited for sophomore year although he's glad that out freshman year is done with, now.

"I don't know. Most people hate school, and while I agree that the tests and homework can be awfully boring and tiresome, I actually find the teachers and time spent with friends every day worth it," Kurt tells me at the end of his ramble. He smiles at me, and I don't think I'll ever get over the fact that _he_ can smile at _me_ of all people. I know he can't possibly know why I'd feel that way, but it's just… weird to me, even if I've been his friend for just about a year now.

"I know what you mean, man," I agree. "The academics of school sucks, but the social aspects of it are the best." Why else would I go to such lengths during my initial life to preserve the social status I had earned?

"Oh, totally. Which is why, even though I know it might make or break my reputation, I'm going to try out for Glee Club next year, first thing." Kurt says. "Because I think I could meet people there, make friends, find connections. Don't you?"

"Oh, I know so," I say, cheating a little because I actually _do_ know, all too well. Glee is where I became friends with Finn and Puck. Where Rachel and I have more common ground than knowing about/understanding gay stuff. "But I'm thinking about actually doing a sport next year, since I skipped this year. Thinking about football."

"I thought you liked hockey, though? We went ice-skating with everyone over the winter, anyway, and you played that game with those strangers."

"Yeah, but hockey players are below footballers on the social food chain; everybody knows that. Besides, Kurt: I was thinking of having you try out with me. I think you'd make an excellent kicker."

"Really? Why?" he wants to know, frowning at what must be his own mental reasons to or not to join said sport. "I'm not very athletic."

"But you dance, right? And…" And I don't want to say that I only know he'd make a great kicker is because I saw him win a game for us that year, the sophomore year of timelines past when he was kicker and damn good at it. "And that means you must have strong legs. And strong legs are all that's needed for kicking a football between the posts. Come on, have some variance and confidence, Hummel; I know you could do it."

He ponders this as he licks the last if his ice cream from his spoon. "Mm," he hums, "Okay. I'll mull it over for later. I have the entire summer to decide, right?"

"For the most part, yeah," I say, because I think football starts right before school this year, but I'm not entirely sure.

I stretch and yawn. "Hmm. Think I'm starting to feel that laziness that comes with being full of sweets. Want to watch a movie for a while, 'til dinner or something?"

Kurt nods. "Sure. Just let me put the bowls and spoons into the dishwasher and we can go."

So he does.

And we do.

And we watch an old favorite of mine I'm glad Burt Hummel owns: _Tremors._ It's one of those cheesy 1990s monster movies in which a bunch of people die, then the monster gets killed, but then there's a sequel in which more monsters somehow made it and everyone's in trouble all over again. Kind of like _Jaws,_ only it takes place in the desert and not the ocean.

Anyway, it's one of my favorites; something I grew up on, even though I was scared shitless as a kid and would go through bouts where I wouldn't touch the floor directly, for fear of a graboid (the name given to the monsters) coming up and eating me because it heard my footsteps. But whatever, I got over it, and now it's just campy and awesome.

Plus, Kevin Bacon is in the first movie. Don't even try to tell me that isn't awesome, 'cause I won't hear a word of it.

Kurt, apparently, has never chosen to watch this movie before, however. He jumps at every sudden action or sound, and grows tense with each suspenseful moment (what few there are of each). And when he sees the inside of the monster's mouth in full for the first time, he damn near gives me a heart attack with the way he leaps sideways at me, hiding his face behind my broad back.

"Kurt. I swear. It's not going to get you," I tell him with a snort, trying to yank him out from behind me.

"But it's so _ugly_! I'm going to have nightmares. I swear. Plus, have you seen all the clothes in this movie? Ew! Everybody there needs to get a makeover."

"It's an old movie. The styles weren't very cool back then, especially not for girls," I explain with a shrug. "And yeah, the monster's pretty fucking hideous, but that's no reason to cower behind me like I'm some magic shield that will erase the film's horrors from your head, dude. So just chill out and finish the movie. It's almost done."

"It's just… gross. How do you and my dad like this stuff? I don't see the appeal at all," he scoffs as he reluctantly detaches himself from me and leans into his original seat beside me, although he's closer than he had been sitting before. Dammit.

"'Cause it's funny, that's why. Some of the one-liners in this are great, and you can't deny that," I say with a grin. The grin isn't over the topic, however; I'd like to say it is, but then I'd be lying. In actuality, I'm smirking over the fact that the sides of our legs are touching, and the same goes for our arms. He feels good; his skin is warm and soft against mine, even if we're both in shorts and sweating a bit in the summer heat (his dad has the air conditioning on low to save money; I don't blame him).

"Well, I'm not laughing," Kurt replies, but it's distant and distracted, and idly I wonder if he's thinking about the same contact that I am.

When the movie is finished, we head into the kitchen for dinner, making a frozen pizza.

"So many calories," Kurt complains under his breath. "I shouldn't have had ice cream today, too…"

"Oh, quit your bitchin'," I tell him with a wave of my hand. "You're perfectly fine, Kurt. I mean, look at you: lean and mean. Lookit those muscles," I tease, poking his arm.

He flinches, scowling at me. "Hey, don't make fun of my guns; I know you're impressed with the sheer _girth_ of my bulging biceps, but that doesn't mean you get the honor of touching them," he says with heavy sarcasm. He sighs, then, serious again. "But no, you didn't know me before, in middle school and stuff. I was pretty chunky. At least a good fifty pounds more than I weigh now. And I've gotten _taller_ ," he emphasizes, showing precisely how thick he must have been.

I remember, actually. And he wasn't _that_ bad… he kind of reminded me of Dudley from the Harry Potter movies. It was kinda cute, in that chubby-little-boy way. And I wasn't much better, so I won't hold it against him.

So I wave it away like the other remarks, shrugging. "Don't worry; this one meal isn't going to make you fat. Besides, if you're so worried about burning off the calories you take in, it's all the more incentive to join football with me this coming year. Right?"

He smiles a little. "You've got me there, Dave," he admits. "Deal. But only because I get weary of the same old workout all the time. Football isn't that hard, is it?"

"Uh, actually, it kind of is, but if you get placed as the kicker it'll be easier for you. You won't have to worry about tackles, and you can sit on the bench until you're needed."

"Do you think they'll let me use music to warm up? I always need music to get ready for anything physical," Kurt wants to know, vaguely turning to check the timer on the stove for when the pizza will be ready to remove from the heat.

I shrug. I actually know that he will be able to, but I decide not to tell him. Instead, I catch on to the last thing he said and decide to make a joke of it. "'Anything physical?' So you need music to prepare for sex, too?" I chuckle perversely, and Kurt doesn't hesitate to reach over and smack me on the arm.

"For Beyoncé's sake, David, just _shut up_!" he barks at me, but it's done with a bark of laughter as he flushes minutely. "You're just horrible," he scolds, but the timer's going off and he's too distracted to comment further as he gets the pizza out and onto a pizza stone, and hands me the pizza cutter, asking, "Would you like to do the honors?"

"It'd be my pleasure," I smirk, and lean over the counter to cut the pizza. I cut it directly down the center, as usual, to trick him; then cut a thin slice and put it on a plate. "For you, Princess," I joke. I put half the pizza on another plate. "And for _me_."

His jaw drops for a second, then he frowns. "Not funny."

"Come on, it was a _little_ funny," I grin as I take his place back from his hands and give him some real slices, and divide the half on my own plate into fourths, putting back a slice. "Totally unfair, but funny."

"I said it once and I'll say it again: you're _horrible,"_ he says, but he's smiling as he takes a bite. He immediately drops it and starts fanning his tongue as it hands out of his mouth, orange with tomato sauce and too pink from the heat. "Oucth! Hot-tuh, hot-tuh!"

"Well, what did you expect? It just came out of the oven!" I reprimand with a roll of my eyes. I reach into his fridge and pour a glass of ice-cold lemonade (the pink, Country-Time brand kind that comes in a powder like Kool-Aid) for him. "Here, drink this. It'll make your tongue feel better."

He guzzles it down, then sighs with relief. "Okay. Not being that stupid again," he remarks as he moves to sit at the kitchen table. I join him, and we once again don't talk much while we eat. There's just… not much to say.

Not when both of us are afraid of revealing too much.

.o0o.

Kurt leaps onto his bed in his fancy two-piece pajamas while I sit opposite him in my boxers and a "wife-beater" tank top. It's hot in his room, so he has a fan going behind us. It's dark outside, the streetlights all on and all the fireflies already flown away. The stars are really clear, and we have just come in, in fact, from gazing up at them and naming constellations, Kurt impressed that I knew so many, and me shocked that he knew so little, especially regarding the stories behind them.

He even had joked about where Hercules' constellation was, since he was put up in the stars at the conclusion of the Disney film. I jokingly pointed out Orion for him, since his belt looks somewhat like the one Hercules has in the cartoon. Kurt knew I was kidding, though; he didn't believe me.

And so here we are now, in his bedroom, _on his bed_ , sitting up with a deck of cards between us.

"Ooh, a wild card! I pick blue," he says, setting down the Uno card with the four colors in an oval in the center.

"Dammit!" I curse. "I already have, like, a third of the deck in my hands, and none of them are fucking blue. Why do you keep doing this to me?" I whine. I really only have about ten or fifteen cards, but Kurt only has four, so I feel like I have way more.

"Come on, Dave, don't be a sore loser. Just draw. I'm sure there's a blue in there somewhere for you," he says, but for a second, I thought he'd said ' _boy'_ instead of blue, as if he was saying there's a _boy_ in the world for me somewhere. Blinking, I shake off the stupid thought and draw the cards. On the fourth card I pull from the deck, I get a blue on and slap it down.

"Ha!" I smirk, "There! And now it's my turn. And I'm telling you to _skip_ ," I say deviously, placing down a wild skip card. "And I'm picking green, bitch. Suck on that."

"Damn you," Kurt mutters under his breath. "I don't have any greens."

"Fuck yes! Revenge is sweet," I say, and lean back, all smug with myself as I place down a green card. "Now it's your turn."

Groaning lightly, he reaches forward… and draws a green on his first try. He licks his lips, smirking, and my face just falls.

"How the hell do you get exactly what you need on the first damn try, while I sit here and every time come up with, like, nothing until I have half the deck in my hands?" I complain with a huff. I glare at him and point across the approximate three-to-four-foot gap between us. "You're too lucky for your own good, Hummel."

"Yup, I am." He grins and places down his green card. "Go."

"Going, going…" I sigh, and place a green one from my repertoire of colorful Uno cards.

"Wild card again," Kurt smirks. "Couldda used it for that green one, but I felt like saving it. It's my ace, but I'm just about finished, so… here. Blue again."

"Dammit, Kurt!" I groan, frustrated with him. "Gimme that," I say, reaching over the space between us. "No more wild cards for you. _I'm_ gonna take it and _I'm_ gonna keep it on green because I have no blues and you're just being a dick!"

"Nope, this card is mine, David," he says smugly, and leans backward, holding the card high above his head, out of my reach from my disadvantaging cross-legged position in front of him.

"Give it!" I say, joking, but also a little serious. I'm a sore loser, and besides, this is another excuse for some friendly teasing that's purposely borderline-flirtatious.

"No!" he insists with a laugh, leaning back more as I lean increasingly forward.

"Give –" I'm about to say, but I cut myself off as I lose my balance from getting up onto my knees on the uneven bed, the cards splaying out on the sheets and slipping underneath my knees. I realize this later, after the damage is done, and I've fallen on top of Kurt.

_Fuck._

_I really hate clichés!_

_Did I honestly have to **fall on top of him?**_

We're both breathless and laughing, laughing, not even caring for a minute that I have the wild card in my hand and my cheek is pressed against his chest, and Kurt's breath is hitting my hair.

I shift a little, removing some of my weight from him (I don't want to crush him), and peer up into Kurt's turquoise eyes.

His smile falls a bit, into something nervous instead of giddy. "Dave," he murmurs, "You stole my card."

"Yeah. What cha gonna do about it?" I question, my voice softer. We're inches apart. I can feel him beneath me, his body radiating heat, his shorts riding up a little, his lower body pressed against my abdomen.

I feel my breath hitch and my heart get tangled up in my throat.

I need to kiss him. Dammit, I don't care about the consequences! I know he likes me – he would be moving away otherwise – and… and I just need to feel his lips against mine again. It's been so long, and I just can't hold back any longer.

I press my palms into the mattress on either side of his ribcage as I lean up to meet his face, where his elbows behind him are propping him up. I come within an inch of his mouth, my nose brushing against his, and I peer up the bridge to his eyes.

I whisper against his lips, "Can I kiss you?" because it just feels right to ask first this time.

He swallows, his eyes fluttering. "But I'm not –" he tries to protest, but even as he does so, he sinks down to the pillows below him until he's gazing up at my face, looking utterly serene, like he doesn't mind this in the least.

"Kurt. It's only the two of us. You don't have to pretend around me," I murmur, sinking to my elbows, bringing our faces closer again. I move my head to the side of his face, my nose grazing his ear. "Let me kiss you."

He nods deftly, and I can feel it rather than see it. Once I do, I lift my head, flash him a brief smile, and then go in for the kill.

I cover his lips with mine, and he makes this stifled, muffled squeak in the back of his throat. I feel his hands reflexively come up to hold onto the junctions between my shoulders, the heels of his palms flat on my collarbones and his fingers just narrowly meeting at the base of my neck.

I think the best part of this is how he reacts under me, his mouth moving as much in sync with mine as he's capable of. I try teaching him, coaxing him with my lips, smoothing them over his, puckering, suckling, until I lick tentatively at the seam of his lips and they part, surprised, his eyes opening for a second the same time mine do.

"I've never… before," he mumbles, meaning that he's never French-kissed. And I doubted it anyway; where would he have had the chance? – He confirms this thought by adding, "This is my first kiss."

"I know," I tell him. And for this timeline at the very least, I can be truthful when I reply, "Mine, too."

"But… you're so good at it," he says, a bubble of nervous giggles escaping him for the briefest of moments.

I smile. "Guess I'm a natural. But don't worry, Kurt, I won't pressure you. You don't have to do anything you don't want to," since I already forced you to do all sorts of things you didn't want to do in the past, my past: like have your first kiss by force, like give me that wedding cake topper, like leave our high school. I made you do those things, but not this time. I want to preserve you, because while I never want this timeline, this life, _this moment_ to end, I know it might. Or could. Or _will._

He shakes his head, his hands running up into my hair. "No, it's all right. I want to keep kissing you," he informs me firmly. Kurt, the ever-sure-of-himself one between us. Even when he, at first, was going to deny his sexuality again. In fact, he must be reading my mind, because after another slow, no-tongue kiss, he whispers shakily, "I-I'm gay, Dave."

"I know. You're kind of stereotypically obvious, there, Fancy," I crack up against his mouth. I'm serious again as I place a short line of four or five kisses along his jaw, the last one placed a little messily underneath, practically on his neck. "But it's okay. I'll protect you, Kurt. I have this entire time. You shouldn't have to come out to anybody unless you want to. Are ready to. You know, all that stuff. You dad probably has you figured, too, and maybe even Mercedes and Tina, but none of them have said anything because they care about you. So don't worry about it, okay?"

He nods, possibly on the brink of crying judging by the way his throat is constricting and swallowing under my lips, but I don't dare glance up to check. I simply continue kissing at his neck haphazardly until he's sighing softly above my head.

"Does… does this mean we're dating?" he says suddenly, and now I really do have to glance up.

"Only if you want to," I reply. "I know _I_ want to. Have for a while. But like I said, if you don't want to be out, I won't force you. Or, hey, if you want some secret relationship or something – friends on the surface, but dating when alone or whatever – I'm cool with that."

He smiles. "That isn't very fair to you, Dave." He seems to ponder it for a moment, his eyes darting elsewhere, away from mine. When they return, he looks like he has an answer. "But okay. For a while. The summer, and probably into school for a bit until I know it'll be safe to tell everyone."

"I don't mind," I grin, and lean down again, stroking his face and into the collar of his shirt, over the curve of his slightly bony shoulder, feeling out his amazing skin and kissing those pink lips again.

I want to say, 'I love you.' I want to say it so much my heart is aching in my chest, but he wouldn't believe me. He would think I was moving too fast. Her would question how, when, why? And I can't give any answers. I can't take it back once I say it, and I know it. I feel pressed for time, and it hurts. But this? Kissing him, holding him, semi-making out with him… it's enough. I think, even without saying it, he might understand the underlying desperation, the way I feel for him, and how much he means to me.


	10. Chapter 10

_No, no, no!_

_This can't be happening again, it just can't!_

_Not when I was there!_

_Not when I thought I had everything figured out_

_In a way that Kurt and I could be together, finally,_

_And everything was fixed._

_What, did I overstep my boundaries?_

_Ruin my 'destiny'?_

_Is that why I'm here?_

_Is that why I'm getting a chance to make a different decision here, now, in this new/old timeline?_

_But I don't understand._

_I thought things were perfect._

_I had him right where I wanted him._

_I had my life right where I thought it should be._

_Why is this happening to me?_

_Why must I endure such torment?_

_I almost wish I were going through the inferno instead._

_I remember reading Dante's Inferno during my senior year._

_Hell didn't seem all that bad._

_And right now, I'd much rather be burning in an eternal flame_

_Than suffer gaining and losing the boy I love_

_Over and over and over again._

.o0o.

Things began safely.

I spent at least four days a week with Kurt over the summer, singing on his video games with him, doing duets and solos, watching movies, going out for bike rides, going to the park or on walks, holding his hand (God, do I love his hands) when we couldn't be seen, kissing in tiny, tight-knit places; his bedroom, the couch when his father was at the shop working, behind a tree, inside a piece of playground equipment, behind a store in town. Anywhere. Everywhere. We went swimming, hung out with friends, went to the mall. Did anything and everything we could together.

Kurt told Mercedes first. Azzy already knew, because I kept no secrets from him (not this Az, anyway; this less-football-oriented, less-biased Az), and was too excited to keep it contained anyhow. So with the two in the know, Kurt and I went on a doubt-date with them to Breadstix, although we played it off like it was a bunch of friends chilling together.

It was fun. There was bickering and teasing, plenty of it, but that's normal. To be expected, especially of us. And Mercedes was so warm and accepting and happy for us, although she did threaten first me, and then even Kurt, not to break each other's hearts, because neither of us deserved that from the other, and we were both her own precious "white homeboys," so we couldn't screw it up since she loved us both.

Tina found out the week before school. She simply smiled. She was proud of us for finally ceasing the dance we had been doing around each other.

"J-just never stop being f-friends after you d-d-date, though, okay? You b-both are so g-good for each other, you kn-know?"

And we promised her, promised Mercedes, that Kurt and I wouldn't let any sour milk run between us, or however that saying goes. It's something my dad says sometimes about co-workers, and I forget it, but that's not the point.

The point is, things were going smooth and flawless and perfectly fine.

Until the Big Game, as I'm beginning to call it.

Burt Hummel was there, cheering on his kicker for a son. Kurt made everybody dance to 'Single Ladies.' All was the way as it had been the first time around, except this time, I was on that team, dancing that dance, doing it all for Kurt; _always_ for Kurt.

He made the kick. Won us the game.

…Or so I'd imagine. Maybe not. Do they finish the football games after the ambulance comes to escort a player off the field?

Because that was me. That was pain. That was everything I didn't want to happen again.

I'm a blocker. It's what I do. I guard the quarterback, tackle guys. But one of these guys… he was like a guy I've never seen. He loomed over me – **_me,_** Dave fucking _Karofsky!_ – and was about one and a half times my width. He rammed into me, hard, pinning me to the ground. And then…

I must have gotten a concussion, because all I saw was swirling grey and flashing red and my head was like churning, churning, like I'd gone deaf and blind but still so very, very conscious of the _pain-pain-pain,_ and there were voices and lights and black around the edges, and I couldn't take much more of it.

And then I blacked out.

And when I woke up? I was in my bedroom. Dazed, confused, and bearing the mother of all migraines.

I groaned, sat up, and…

I haven't moved since.

I've just… been staring. This entire time, I've just been staring at my closet door, trying to discern _who-what-when-where-why-how_ , my brain just one big fuckin' mess.

And as I'm sitting here, I glance around, and spy the wedding cake topper on the floor near my closet.

The. Wedding. Cake. Topper.

"FUCKING SHIT! GOD DAMMIT!" I screech, bolting upright – purposely ignoring my dizziness and throbbing headache – and pick up the topper only to chuck it across the room, watching with sick satisfaction as it smashes against my wall near my window in a dozen teeny pieces.

Seething, I scream into my hands, starting to cry, until my mother comes rushing into my bedroom.

"David! David! Sweetie, what's wrong? My God, why is there broken plastic all over your bed? And… a dent in the wall? Did you hurt yourself? How are your eyes? Lemme see, David! David, just… talk to me, okay?" she's saying, and soon, my father's in the room.

"Mom," I say shakily, brokenly (I ache all over as though my bones were shattered), "P-please… just… get the fuck out."

"David, what –"

"YOU TOO, DAD!" I roar, just about a million different emotions ripping through me as my head beats like a snare drum. "Get. The. FUCK. Out!"

My mother stares at me in horror, and in his scarily calm, stern voice, my dad stands in front of her and says, "You will never speak to us that way. Where is your head?"

"In the Scottish highlands getting beat around some boulders by a pair of fucking giants in kilts!" I hiss, gripping my hair strong enough to tear out chunks of it. I can feel the hairs tugging at the roots, feeling the oddly soothing, icy pain shoot across my scalp and distract from the constant ache in my skull that's like a pack of wild beasts tearing the grey matter in there. Worse than any hangover I've ever experienced, that's for sure.

"David, what do you mean?" my mother asks, genuine worry in her tone. She also sounds still insulted by my yelling, but she's taking a step in front of my dad to reach me, so that must mean something.

I'm crying, I know I am. I have been since I saw the cake topper. There's only one timeline I'm aware of in which I have that stupid thing:

The first timeline, the one in which Kurt hates my guts.

Kurt, the boy I was just leaning in to kiss good luck before the game, when we were both in the locker room after everyone else had filed out and onto the field.

Kurt, the boy I love more than my own life, love enough to fuck up my own life repeatedly in order to obtain.

Kurt, who's currently at Dalton and hates me and whose topper and first kiss I stole, who's life I threatened out of my own fears, who just _hates-despises-loathes_ me.

Why. Why? Just… _why-why-why_ am I here, back in this timeline, back in this nearly-seventeen-year-old body? Why now? Why, when I was so close? When I was there?

My mom's helping me sit down on my bed. She's rubbing my back, and probably glancing at my dad for assistance, but I don't witness much of any of it. With my skull still splitting in two, pounding away with bout after bout of fresh pain, I break down.

I shatter, just like that wedding cake topper.

I crumble into my mother's embrace, leaning over, onto her, my face pressed against her shoulder, the fabric of her shirt instantly soaked with my pathetic, self-pitying tears, and my sobs muffled only slightly by her chest. I feel weak. Defeated. Devastated. _Gone._

"Your father's gone, David. And… sweetie, you can just nod if its true, but… did you just wake up from a jump?"

I tense all over, instantly sniffling in a sharp intake of air. I nod gravely, and lift my head to peer into her eyes with my watering, puffy and red ones.

"It was perfect, Mom," I tell her softly. "I was living the best life. Friends, football, no one caring that I was gay –"

"You're gay?" she exclaims in a gasp, surprised but not disapproving.

I roll my eyes. "I'm tired of this. Sorry, I forgot this version of you didn't know yet. But yeah, mom, I'm gay. And… in love. Mom, so much in love, and I've never said it aloud until now, and I feel like a fucking dumbass saying it, but I really, truly love someone. And I had him. He was mine. And now I've lost him again, because in this section of my life, he hates my guts. I bullied him. A lot. He even transferred because of me," I say choking on another sob I don't want to burst forth. "I want him back, Mom," I say, my voice cracking on the word 'back.' "I need him so much."

"Shh, shh, it's all right, dear, it's all right…" she says comfortingly, taking my head into her hands and laying it back against her breasts, my brows on her collarbone. "You'll get him. Sweetie, you'll get him, okay? This isn't over yet. You have time. Chances. Just look: you came here after death or pain-near-death, right? Because something went wrong. You could be in a coma in that life you left, but God wants to give you another shot while your other body is idle. There must be some way for you to correct your mistakes in this timeline. Understand? So you'll have him, baby. If he was meant for you, if you love him that much – and I can tell that you do – you'll have him by your side again in no time."

"I want to believe you," I mumble, "I want to think that's true. But at this point, I don't know if I can redeem myself. I don't think he can forgive me. Hell, I don't even know what time this is, exactly; I only have a clue because of that broken plastic you see all over the place. But don't give me dates; I won't remember them. Tell me an event. Something important I'd remember."

She pauses for a second. "You just had your championship football game this weekend. It's Sunday night right now. You have school tomorrow."

Dread fills me. I know what tomorrow is. "It's the day Finn asks me if I want to go with him to apologize to Kurt…" I murmur under my breath, and my mom peers at me quizzically. I shake my head, unable to explain further. "Mom, is it okay if I go to Westerville with a friend in the near future?"

"I don't see why not. It's not very far. Would he be driving?" she asks, and I love that she's okay with this.

I exhale slowly, trying to clear my head of the lingering pain still drumming onward between my ears. "Yeah, I think so. I don't know the details yet. I just know that he's going to ask me. The first time… I said no. I just – I couldn't do it. I went on the defense. But not this time. I need to see him again. I need to set things right with him, because I can't keep doing all this without him." Plus, I crave him more than any dessert. His lips, his skin, the feeling of any part of his body touching mine; a casual brush, a kiss, a hug, a nudge, anything. Everything. As long as it's Kurt Hummel.

My mother nods. "All right, David. I understand. But hey, do you need anything? You look like you're in pain. You keep wincing."

"Some pain killers would be fucking fantastic," I groan, giving in to whining a bit. I fall backward on my bed and cradle my head in my hands, squeezing to rid myself of the migraine.

"Okay, dear. I'll be right back with some pills and some water. Don't go anywhere," my mother teases, and with a pat to my knee, she leaves my room.

My dad reenters seconds later. "Son. I heard everything. How… how are you feeling?" he wants to know, and he looks like he's sorry about something. "I think it might do you good to speak to your aunt on the phone. She's been in a similar situation; she's had to fix her love life over and over again because it was meant to happen one way or another."

"Is love really that important? I mean, so vital in my life that I have to keep going through death and pain and heartache and living and reliving moments of my fucked-up life just because of one person? If I didn't love him so much, I'd think this was really pathetic and pointless and foolish," I relay with a sigh, my eyes closed and my fingers pinching the bridge of my nose. I feel my mattress sink somewhere near my feet as my dad sits on the edge.

"It can be. It depends on the person. I've never gone through it, but I know people who have. For one person in my family, they redid their life over and over in order to find a way to have children and take care of their child correctly. And that's love. Then I know of your mother, who's redone her life because of you, because of me, and because of work; she was doing all the wrong jobs before, caring about money instead of doing something she enjoys. And it's all settled, now, but most of those things? It was for who and what she loved. Love is what fuels humans sometimes; greed and other sins as well, but love admits all the sin. It's what keeps us human and bound to this world," my dad informs me with a stern, life-lesson-speech sort of voice.

I nod my head, not entirely wrapping my mind around it, but getting there. I'm close to some epiphany, I think. "So… I should just keep going and continue doing what I'm doing? Jumping times, moments, circumstances of life, over and over until I have things settled correctly? How will I know if any of it will affect the right people in the right ways? If any of them will remember anything?"

My dad shifts uncomfortably. "This is a question your aunt or mother could answer better, but… I do know that I've dreamt of or had random memories from moments that your mother has made in other timelines."

…Wait. Kurt had a dream once of the future, my future, when I died the first time before coming back to my teenage years. Does that mean that he was indirectly remembering something? But why would he remember a moment when I was alone? It doesn't add up. It must be coincidence. I know I've dreamt weird things before about people I know. It shouldn't matter, right?

I shake my head to clear it, right as my mother returns and hands me the medication and bottled water. I down the pills, chug the water, and lie back on my bed. I glance at the clock; it's late, nearly eleven.

"I should get back to bed," I remark bitterly. "I have school tomorrow."

"School. How old were you from where you just came from?" My dad wants to know.

"Fifteen. It was last year, sophomore year. And before that, I was sixteen again. And before that… twenty-three." I sigh. "I don't miss being twenty-three. That was a lonely life. Could still be my life, especially with the timeline I'm in currently, but… I hope not. I hope I can change things tomorrow. Finn said that we could change things," I add, mostly to myself.

My dad nods curtly, stands, and bids me a quick goodnight before leaving. My mom then does something weird that she hasn't done since I've been about ten years old: she comes up to my bedside, bends down, and plants a kiss on my forehead as she smoothes back my hair. "Goodnight, sweetie," she says. "Try to rest easy."

I frown at her, but she simply smiles that little smile of hers when she's indirectly telling me how much she loves and cares about me, and it's so foreign to what I'm used to that as soon as she leaves, it's difficult to sleep, even with the beginnings of fuzziness from the medication kicking in.

And it hits me, stops my breathing dead for a second: I just came out to my parents in this timeline, but because of my stress, they overlooked it and accepted it straight away.

I breathe again, and a trickle of relief sinks into my brain. They… don't mind. Or care. Just like some of the versions of them in my other timelines. I guess my parents are my parents no matter how much of a dick I've been to them, or no matter what I thought they might be like.

It's good to know.

.o0o.

When I see Hudson approach me at my locker the following day (thank God I still know the combination to this one), he's smiling at me. I try not to act nervous or like I know what he's going to say.

"Hey, congrats on the MVP!" I say with a smile, because he really did deserve it. For once, he actually used that brain of his and thought on his feet. It earned him that Most Valuable Player slot, hands down.

"Thanks. It was… a team effort," Finn supplies with a shrug and that lopsided smile of his. His face clears into something serious as he says next (and I prepare myself for the blow): "Hey, so look… the guys and I agreed that you shouldn't join Glee Club permanently until you clean things up with Kurt." I wince at the name; I love Kurt, but he hates me, and the reminder is like a fresh wound to my heart. "So… I thought, y'know, maybe we could go together to Dalton to apologize to him?"

I take in a shaky breath, my face steely. "Fine."

"…What, really? Man, I thought you were gonna say no! I mean, I wouldn't have been mad at you if you had, but still. Wow, okay. Um, wanna go today after school, or wait until the weekend, or…?" he says, his demeanor brightened.

I glance off to the side. "Today's fine. Whatever."

"Cool! Wow, so this is really happening, huh? You wanna join Glee? I mean, I noticed that you had a lot of fun in it, and you even came out to dance with us at the half-time show, and you even picked that song for us to rehearse with –"

I cut him off with a curt wave. "Yeah, Hudson, whatever. I said I'd do it. Just don't make such a big deal outta it, all right? We might be on top now after winning the game, but Glee Club is still considered a place for losers. But I'm just tired of caring. I wanna do it 'cause it makes me feel like I'm actually part of something because it's what I like, not 'cause it's something other people would like."

"Whoa, dude. Exactly! You got all that already? I mean, it took me forever to convince the Cheerio girls of all that! You're awesome, Karofsky. Why have you always been such a jerk? You can actually be pretty cool," Finn remarks with a laugh and a grin, slapping me for a moment on the back. I turn and shrug off the sensation.

"'S nothing, really. Stop acting weird," I grumble. "I said I'd go apologize to Hummel. I said I'd join Glee. This doesn't make us bros." Although it wouldn't be all that bad if we were, but I'm still sore about losing Kurt as a boyfriend again, and I'm also trying to play it off like I'm still the same person and not 'drastically changed overnight,' since I'd seem that way if I acted anything like my more recent self. Well, the self that he doesn't know about, anyway. The time-jumping self.

"Yeah, sorry. Okay. Well, I'll see you after school, all right? We'll take my car. I'll call Kurt and tell him that I'm visiting, but I think it'd be safest not to mention you, huh? And d'ya think I should let Kurt bring his friend Blaine with him? He looks up to the guy, and I think he might need someone else there if you're gonna be there," Finn says, and I nod dumbly.

"Sure, whatever. Let him bring his boyfriend. I got no qualms with that, I guess," I retort with a hint of acrimony in my tone. Yeah, maybe more than a hint; I really resent the guy. Blaine is the bane of my existence in this timeline. He has Kurt, and that's enough to make me hate him. Well, maybe hate is too strong of a word. I at least strongly dislike him, that hair-gelled, triangular-browed, prissy bastard. He thinks he's so flawless, but I bet the dude has some major flaws. I mean, is he really so smooth? I'd like to see him try and beat me with kiss count. " _Feh_ ," I scoff to myself in reaction to my thoughts.

"…But not in the boyfriend-way," Finn concludes, and I snap out of my thoughts, confused. He frowns at me. "Dude, you look like you haven't been listening at all."

"Oh. Sorry."

Finn rolls his eyes a little. "Well, I gotta get to class. But to recap: Kurt probably won't forgive you, but if you start Glee and make friends with us and stuff, I think he might be able to like you as a friend. And dude, he's not dating Blaine, and he's kinda sore is someone says that they're boyfriends 'cause they're not, but I think Kurt wants to be, so… just don't say stuff like that, okay? Anyway, later."

"Later," I dismiss, and turn on my heel and traipse into class; tardy, but I don't care. I'm going to get to see Kurt today, and things are going to get messy and I know it, but I think I can take it. If it means that Kurt might eventually like me – even in the friend-way – like Finn said, then I think it's worth it.

.o0o.

The car ride is extremely uncomfortable. We spend some of it talking about football, and Finn mentions some of his basketball playing from last year, and I talk about hockey a little, but outside of sports he and I don't have much in common.

We're silent for a long time, but then Finn gets weary of the silence and flicks on the radio. Automatically 'Big Balls' by AC/DC comes on, and suddenly we're both laughing and belting out the lyrics. And I guess, outside of sports, he and I have music and singing in common, which is better than nothing.

In a relatively good mood (although the dread from last night is seeping into my lungs again, hardening my chest like a boa constrictor wrapping around my muscles), we pull into the visitor's parking of the prep school and stroll in, getting visitor passes and someone from the office to guide us to a common room of some sort (I'm immediately reminded of _Harry Potter_ ).

Blaine's there. Kurt, too. And so is a bunch of other people. It says, 'Dalton Warblers' on the wall, so I assume that this group is the Glee Club of this school.

"Finn!" Kurt says excitedly, not quite seeing me yet. I'm making sure to keep my body turned away from Finn, and I'm not wearing my letterman.

Kurt hugs his stepbrother generously, as if he hasn't seen him in forever. I cough awkwardly into my hand, clearing my throat to gain Kurt's attention.

His eyes fall to me, panning over slowly, and once they lock with my eyes, I can literally watch him turn pale, his rosy cheeks washing white. Instant guilt flutters in my gut, as violent and unwelcome as maggots-turned-to-flies.

"What is _he_ doing here?" is the stereotypical response I expected to hear from Kurt. And it's precisely what he says, venom on the word 'he' and all. He's trembling, too; he's terrified of me. Hatred swims across the air between us, smacking me in the face. I turn away, blinking, lashes flickering, like I usually do when I feel uncomfortable.

I click my tongue, and then run it over the seam of my lips. "Hey, Hummel."

"Hey? _Hey?"_ Kurt flares to life, voice rising. The prep school boys around him are suddenly staring at us in the doorway. They exchange glances – I spot every single one of them – and then Blaine strolls up to Kurt's side.

"Is there a problem here?" he wonders, one thick brow quirking. His gaze falls on me, and his eyes seem to size me up from head to toe. "Don't I know you? We've met before, haven't we? Your name… Something with a 'ski' sound in it, correct?"

"Karofsky," Finn says for me, even as my mouth opens to say something along the lines of, 'fuck you, Slick.' And yes, that is a reference to his hair. Makes me wonder why he needs so much gel in it. What, does he normally have curly, unruly hair like I do?

"Yeah, that's me. And we've met before. You… _confronted_ me on the outside stairs at McKinley once. You and K- _Hummel._ I didn't particularly appreciate that sort of exposure," I growl. But I force myself to calm down as Finn lays a hand on my forearm, his fingers barely brushing the hairs there.

"Dave, don't. Come on, man: you know why we're here. Be cooperative, okay? Be nice," he insists. I make a scoffing sound. I don't need to be patronized, least of all by Hudson.

"Warblers?" Blaine says, not taking his eyes off of me; I can tell through my peripherals, since I refuse to look at him directly. He just pisses me off so much. "Would you mind clearing out for a while? There's some business the four of us need to settle."

"As long as you don't leak any Regionals info, it's all good," some tall, handsome piece of chocolate says with a chuckle and a pat on Blaine's back as he walks by.

"I'll be sure to refrain, David; for your sake," Blaine smiles at the boy, following him with his eyes for a moment as the guy leaves.

David? I know my name's common, but, really? Here, too? Wonder if that made Kurt think of me at all, even if it was a negative thought. 'Course, I usually go by 'Dave' instead, but still.

"Don't start any trouble, now, boys!" another Warbler muses, strutting past Finn and I to leave the room.

"With _him,_ Wes, there's always trouble," Kurt grumbles under his breath, but I catch it, and I think Finn does, too, because he sends his brother a look, and then sends the same look to me.

Finally, the room is cleared out, and Blaine walks by and closes the doors. "Have a seat, gentlemen," he says pleasantly, and he gestures to the two couches in the room. Worn, quality leather; did I expect anything different?

Finn and I take a seat on one couch, and Blaine and Kurt take a seat on the other across from us, Kurt parallel to his stepbro, and me parallel to the asshole. We peer at each other for a moment in an awkward silence, none of us very skilled with conversations like these, since we're only about seventeen, and by no means adults. But I was an adult at one time, twenty-fucking-three years old, so I decide that I'm going to handle things.

Sighing to release some of my tension, I lean back from my hunched-over, insecure position over my knees and say with an open gesture with my hands, "Let me get to the point, before Finn tries to beat things around the bush and you or Slick over here tries to say anything against me."

"Reasonable," Blaine remarks softly, and he crosses his legs at the knee like Kurt and places his folded hands atop his knee, back straight and chin held high, patiently waiting and listening.

Kurt, however, looks skeptical and is _glowering_ at me, similar to how he stared at me the entire time we were in Sue's office, except there is more violation and malice there, now. Must be because I'm in his safe haven, barging in on his precious singing time with his boyfriend.

I sigh heavily, pausing to gather my courage, and stuff down what's left of my heartache over the fact that a different Kurt actually had a crush on me, _willingly kissed me,_ not even a few days ago in my experiences. This Kurt diagonal from me now… it nearly breaks me. If I hadn't already had my meltdown last night at home, I'd already be in pieces just witnessing such hatred being sent my way.

"Kurt, I'm going to be straight-up with you: I don't want any more bad blood between us. I'm not gonna ask for forgiveness – Lord knows I don't deserve it after all the shit I've done to you, since I've probably emotionally scarred you worse than Puckerman's dumpster dives and Hudson's lawn chair incidents – but I do want you to know that… Well, that I'm really, really sorry about all of it. I… I didn't mean to hurt you as much as I did. I didn't know what an icy bitch-slap in the face a slushie was until I got one myself this past week from some of my old teammates. I didn't know what it felt like to be called gay all the time for being in Glee Club until I was in it for a short while. And… I didn't know how amazing it was to sing and dance for people until I tried it myself.

"I guess, what I'm saying here is: I didn't know what it felt like for you until I was forced to sorta be you, or at least in a similar situation. And I know now how wrong I was. I've been such a creep, such a dickweed, such a… a loser," and this last part is whispered, pained, because being a loser was one of my greatest fears for so very long. "You don't have to accept this apology or be my new best friend or some shit. Just… know that I'm sorry, okay? For… for everything. And I mean everything," I add, finally looking directly into his eyes, so that he knows I mean the kiss and taking (and breaking) his wedding topper thingamabob and just… all of it. I hate the 'me' of this timeline, and I want to erase him if I can. I want to show Kurt how different I can be.

Kurt narrows his eyes for a moment. Then, slowly, he leans forward, elbows resting on his thighs near his knees as he says pointedly, "You're right, Karofsky: I can't forgive you. I refuse to, and it's not like it's something I can ever forget, either. But… I suppose I can accept the apology in the sense that I agree with you for feeling sorry. You should. You were horrible to me. I hate you. But you're human, and humans can be vile and make mistakes, so I can't entirely hold everything against you. Being what you are," he hints vaguely, "Doesn't excuse your behavior, and that's why I can't forgive you. Although I will say this: I can tell you actually mean all of that, and that's a start." His gaze finally drops mine, and Blaine and Finn exchange glances over it.

"Pardon me, and, um, I might be a little too bold in trying this, but… Kurt, Karofsky? May I clue Finn in as to what you two are talking about? I think he has the right to know why all of this is so terrible to you," he says, looking at Kurt.

I nod, shrug, and generally snort at it. "Fine, whatever. I'll even do it myself. Hudson: just so you know, I kissed Kurt. Yeah, on the lips. Don't look at me like that; I'm not fucking lying. Even ask 'im. I'm kinda… yeah. Gay. I dunno," I say, not looking at any of them, now.

"Whoa! Holy shit!" Finn exclaims, leaping to his feet. "You – I –" he cuts himself off with a shake of his head. "Man! I don't even know if I should punch you in the face or just… I don't even _know_." He looks shocked beyond belief, and I can't say I blame him. He frowns, his perfectly puzzled expression on his face. "Wait, so… when I teased you, saying how you call everyone gay all the time but never seem to have a girlfriend… I was _right_? And _that's_ why you tried to tackle me, and Azimio has to chill you out? You're seriously… I mean, you're actually… gay?" he sputters.

"Yes, Finn, you retard, I'm actually fucking gay. Isn't that what I just said?" I snap back at him, rolling my eyes and crossing my arms over my chest. "Do I really need to spell it out for you?"

"Stop talking to Finn like that! He has every reason to be surprised!" Kurt bitches, and stands as well. "How do you think _I_ felt when the one guy who I thought hated me most, was the most homophobic person I ever met, just abruptly _put his lips on me_? The last thing I expected was you to be just like me deep down! And Finn didn't even know this until now, so how must he feel? So just shut your burger-snarfing pie-hole, Karofsky," he hisses, and then sinks back down onto the couch in one jerky movement.

"Look, I didn't ask for any of this, okay?" I reply, trying to keep my voice to a minimum. Meanwhile, Blaine looks a little lost, and like he pities me right now, and also little he doesn't want to get sacked by any of us, so he's choosing to keep his mouth shut. Clever boy. I go on, "I didn't want to be gay. Or like Kurt. Or get everything so fucked up like it is right now. It just happened, okay? And I'm sorry, all right? So can we just move on? I want to be in Glee Club, and that's the only fucking reason why I'm even _here._ Singing's all I have left, now," I tack on at the end, my voice going soft and pained. Kurt's facial expression shifts from a glare to something akin to… what? Sympathy? And Blaine just looks like the last piece fell into place, a light bulb lighting above his head.

"…Is that all true?" Kurt mutters, looking like I stole words from his mouth and these are the only ones I left him with to use.

"Um, duh. Why else would I say it? I mean it. Singing is all I have." _Because I can't have you, Kurt. Not here, not like this. Never like this, in this reality. Because here, you despise me. I sicken you. You're afraid of me. You'd never go near me in this reality. You probably have wished me dead a few times with the things I've done to you. And it just… it makes me feel defeated. I've given up all hope of dating you in this timeline, so I'm just going to settle for singing keeping me alive paired with you knowing how sorry I am._

I want to say all this, but I can't. He wouldn't understand.

"I need to go to the little boy's room," Kurt says weakly, and stands and bolts from the room. Probably to barf. See, didn't I call that one? I sicken him. Him knowing that I like him – love him – is enough to send him running even more.

Fuck my life.

"…Okay, I officially feel lost and out-of-the-loop and a little flabbergasted and disgusted," Finn remarks with a high-pitched voice. "And 'flabbergasted' is a word I learned in class today, in case you were wondering. I felt like trying it out. Did I use it right?"

"You did," Blaine confirms airily. He looks at me as though he's trying to pinpoint my next move or something. Feh, like I'm going to do anything.

Kurt reenters the room moments later, looking pale and holding one hand over his stomach, but otherwise fine. "Sorry. Lost my lunch. I just… this is a lot to take in. You sound resentful, Karofsky, but… also regretful and honest. And I can't say I'm just a bit satisfied with that," he remarks as he seats himself again. "After all, having you humble yourself by apologizing – however roughly – and then admitting your secrets? That's impressive for someone as low as you."

"Low," I repeat darkly. "As in, 'scum of the Earth,' sort of low." It isn't a question.

"That's what most bullies are," Kurt answers, and I swear I want to reach over and grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he's dizzy, all the while yelling in his face how wrong he is, that I can be decent when I want to be, but all this would be ironic since I'd be screaming about decency while simultaneously harming him, and… and my brain just needs to shut off now before it implodes with run-on sentences.

I exhale jaggedly, eyes panning down to my hands in my lap. "You know what? I'm not even going to argue with you, Hummel. In fact, I think it's time for us to leave. I said I was sorry. I came out to someone else, someone you didn't have to tell. I'm done." And I stand as I say this. "Hudson," I call as an afterthought, because, duh, he's my _ride._

"Oh. Um… sure. Right. Uh, see you at home, Kurt. Nice to see you again, Blaine. And, uh… uh. Yeah," Finn states awkwardly. I think it has something to do with the fact that he realizes now that he's the sole straight guy in the room, and that the other three guys around him wouldn't go near a vagina if their lives depended on it. Which I can totally understand would be an uneasy thing for him to realize. He's just lucky none of us are gonna hit on him.

As we pace down the hall, we suddenly hear a voice calling out behind us. "Wait! Before you go, I'd like a word. In private," says Blaine, and I eye him with distaste, but shrug in agreement anyway.

"You go on ahead, Hudson. Wait in the car for me. Blast some music or something," I direct him. He nods and dashes off. I turn to the other gay boy and lick my chops habitually, a sneer growing on my face. "So, what's up, Pretty Boy?"

He smiles a little. "Glad you think I'm pretty. But that's not what I wanted to discuss."

Yeah, pretty if you didn't have those distracting eyebrows. I mean, my own eyebrows are pretty distracting in that slanted way, but his are distracting in that bushy way. They're like little boomerangs. Black boomerangs. How does he expect me to take him seriously when he talks when all my eyes keep flickering to are his damn brows?

Oops. I'm missing part of his little speech. Better pay attention.

I shift my weight on my feet and slide my hands into my pockets as I lean back on one foot and absorb the words he's tossing my way.

"…That Kurt is going through a lot right now, since this school can be academically challenging in comparison to the school he left. So I'd appreciate it if you didn't add on the stress by joining Glee Club and being at Regionals, where he's bound to see you," Blaine says with shyness and politeness.

My brows meet between my eyes. "Whoa. Hold up. You want me to dump the only thing that brings me joy anymore just because you think Hummel can't handle seeing me at some sing-off? Look, Bland –"

"…It's Blaine."

"Look, _Pain_ -In-My-Neck, I don't know what sort of relationship you have with Kurt, but you need to have more faith in him. He's stronger than you think, all right? He can handle seeing me at some competition or whatever. I won't even say anything to him; today, I decided, is the last time I'll ever speak to him again. And I haven't touched him since before I got temp-expelled. So just cool your jets, all right? He'll be fine. No way am I quitting Glee before I've even started it; it's something I want, now that football's over after the championship game. It's all I have left. Why would I want to leave it?" I say threateningly, getting up close and personal with the guy.

With the breezy heating system in here, I catch a whiff of his cologne; smells expensive, boyish, colorful with scent, unlike my own tame smell. I wrinkle my nose is disgust; shit's way too heavy and suffocating. I back up a step to clear the smell from my nostrils.

Blaine doesn't appear offended. He raises his hands in silent surrender. "Okay, sorry. Have it your way. I was only trying to make a suggestion; I didn't mean for that to come out as a demand or a threat. You may take your leave, now," he says, dismissing me as politely as possible. I can feel the politeness, it's genuine, but that doesn't stop me from hating him any less.

With a " _Tch_ ," I curtly pivot on my back foot and storm out of the private school building. It's too conformed here. I hated how uniform Kurt looked in that little jacket and tie with the slacks and lack of Doc Martins; it's wrong, seeing him so packed down into a box, out of his usual flamboyant element. It… saddens me. Angers me. Frightens me.

That wasn't Kurt back there. The fear? Yes. The attitude? Definitely. But the sickness and mostly quietness and the physical appearance and the way he just sat there and made little facial expressions… That wasn't Kurt. Even when he was at his utmost stoic in Sue's office, I still saw life sparking in his eyes, emotions painting across the air through his eyes. Not in there, though. I didn't see that flame in there. He looked… tired. Hopeless. Listless.

That's not Kurt Hummel. Not the one I've known, anyway.

And it just felt so _wrong._

I want the old Kurt back. I want my old life back. I want all of this to just change and move on.

But my wants mean nothing, don't they? They don't count here.

And that just fucking _sucks._ And it fucking _drives me crazy._ And know what else? It fucking _makes me wanna cry._

Once I'm in the car, Finn fully starts the engine (as opposed to the three-quarter turn he had set to play music and turn the heat on low, since it's still February and very cold out). He glances at me. "Aren't you going to put your seatbelt o– Crap! Karofsky, are… are you _crying_?"

"No," I mumble, voice breaking. I sniff loudly – the sound seeming to echo inside the vehicle – and rub my nose. My eyes are dry, but there's that hot prickle in the back of my eyeballs and a painful tightness in my throat. "Just… drive, okay? G-get us home."

"Shit. Kar– Dave. Dude. Just… calm down, okay? It's okay, really. Kurt… H-he'll come around, I think. Maybe. Just… don't cry, okay?" he says weakly, unsurely, friendly. I glance over at him, and he must see something in my face, because his own expression melts. "God, dude… you don't look like yourself. You look really… what's the word?"

"Vulnerable?" I snort with a short, humorless laugh. "Yeah, you don't fucking need to tell me. I know I look pathetic as fuck right now."

"This really tears you up inside," he finally understands, and he looks like he might do something weird (like try to hug me?) unless I stop him. "You really like Kurt, huh?"

"More than you know, or I would admit to," I mutter icily. "Just… drive, okay? Really, I'll be fine. And if you mention this to _anyone,_ Hudson, I swear to God I'll –"

"Kill me?" he smiles without humor. "Like you threatened Kurt? Dude, I'm beginning to think you don't mean a word of that, and never have. You're kinda like a wounded lion. You know, the one who had a thorn in its paw? You just… you look scary, act scary, but you're actually just hurting."

Gee, Finn. Way to be insightful. "You're such a dork," I laugh, making an effort to stare solely out the window. We haven't left the parking lot yet. He hasn't even put the car in gear, out of 'park.'

Finn chuckles. He then leans over and gives me a one-armed embrace, a short-lived one, like a bro-hug. Can't say I didn't see this coming. I snort, but don't pull out of it. It feels… warm. Comforting. _Nice._ He murmurs soothingly, "Dude, it's gonna be fine, I promise. I'll make sure things turn out. Tons of people are against you, but… I think being in Glee will change their minds. Kurt's included. Hell, maybe even Burt's! We just gotta be patient, that's all. Take things slow. Sounds fair, right?"

"Sure, right," I agree softly, my voice unable to go much higher than this without breaking. "…Thanks, Finn. Honestly."

"Hey, man. What're friends for?" he says with a grin (that sideways one of his). He then takes the car out of its parking slot, and we're on our way.

Friends, huh? I kind of like that idea. Finn's a nice guy, and I think this messed up version of me could use someone like him to get my priorities in order. And just… my life back in order in general.

Yeah, this might work. I can deal with this. It hurts like Hell – all I want is Kurt, all I've _ever_ wanted is Kurt, but that's just not possible here – but I think I can tolerate it. I have to try, anyway; or else I might…

…I don't even want to think about what else I might do.


	11. Chapter 11

_I'm surprised Finn hadn't punched me_

_When he found out I kissed Kurt_

_And that I bullied him so bad_

_Because I'm gay and don't want to be._

_I really thought that Finn – a known grudge holder –_

_Would have sacked me,_

_Tackling me to the floor or up against a wall_

_And beat me._

_But he hadn't._

_Instead, he's the closest thing to a real friend_

_That I have right now,_

_Since Az is out of sorts without football to take up his time lately,_

_And is sore about me joining Glee Club permanently._

_"You were so against joining before, dude!_

_I don't get it!_

_Why the change of heart?_

_Are you gonna start wearing glittery purple vests_

_And sing and dance with your loser pals?_

_Am I gonna have to start slushying you, too, bro?"_

_And I told him that he could if he wants to,_

_Because I'm lost the ability to care._

_I'm just… sort of… dead inside these days._

_I mean, Kurt vomited because of me._

_I think that means more than I can express in words._

_And Finn just seems to pity me,_

_And his friends surprisingly want to help me,_

_Because I'm pretty sure Finn leaked my gayness to at least a few of them,_

_Minus the gossip queens like Santana and Mercedes._

_But Rachel knows._

_And I'm going to dinner at her house this weekend_

_To meet and talk to dads._

_They want to help me, too._

_Everybody seems to want to help me._

_And I don't understand why._

_And am I so special?_

_In what bizarre world do I deserve this?_

_Certainly not here, in the original timeline._

_Certainly not when… when…_

_But I apologized to Kurt. Straight from my heart._

_And the Glee clubbers know that._

_And they actually aren't acting too different from the first time_

_I officially joined Glee Club, back when I had my initial redo._

_So maybe I'll be fine._

_Maybe things will work out._

_…I sure hope so._

I sigh, beginning to drift off into sleep. These thoughts keep running through my head, wispy and choppy, but clear enough to be understood.

And then sleep claims me.

.o0o.

Some time passes. Valentine's Day, some drama with Quinn and Rachel that Finn confides in me about since I don't have anyone to tell, and then the Glee club does some silly Justin Bieber stuff and it's all bogus, but kinda all right, and I'm just there, enjoying the show and trying to distract myself.

My grades are fine. Have been ever since I came back, since it's technically things I've done before. Each test and quiz is like a sheet of déjà vu, and it helps me keep up my improvements. My parents are proud of me, and they got my back, just like how my dad did against his boss in that other reality. It feels like everything might work itself out.

That is, until Rachel calls me one night.

She's excited in that bubbly, sneaky, plotting way. I brace myself for whatever she has to say. "David!" she exclaims as soon as I answer the phone with a brief, 'Hey, what's up?' "You are cordially invited to a Gleeful – see, I used a pun there – extravaganza at my house this weekend, starting Friday night! My dads are going to be away, and everyone from New Directions plus Kurt and Blaine from the Warblers are going to be there. It was Puck's idea, and at first I didn't want to agree to it, but now that I think about it, he's right; it's a great way to get everyone closer together and ready for Regionals. We'll have karaoke and spin-the-bottle and I think Puck wants to bring some refreshments, which means it's bound to be a good time! So are you in or what? Because I will resort to dragging you here myself if I have to, mister. I don't like taking 'no' for an answer."

I blink a few times, and then raise a hand in surrender, even though she can't see so over the phone. "Yeah, okay. Sure. But those 'refreshments' won't happen to mean alcohol, will they, Rache?" She always smiles when I call her by this nickname.

Right on cue, there's a smile in her tone as she answers, "Um, maybe. I don't know. If they are, it's deliciously forbidden and I can't say I won't give into temptation and indulge myself a little. I mean, we're seventeen now, right? We can handle ourselves. I know at least _I_ can." She pauses, and I imagine her shrugging her narrow shoulders. "It all sounds like a good idea to me. What could possibly go wrong?"

…That line in the history of forever has always been dangerous, and will most likely continue to be dangerous. But at this point, I'm really frustrated and fed up with having all of my good deeds undone and all my mistakes slapped in my face, so giving in to a party with alcohol sounds like a good idea to me, too. So with a shrug I tell her, "Well, Fabray would disagree with you about the mixing of alcohol and parties, but I don't have a problem with it. Count me in, Berry."

"Awesome! Thanks, Dave. I'll see you on the flip side," she jokes, trying to sound cool. Then she giggles and mutters one final 'goodbye' prior to hanging up.

I shake my head at her as soon as we're off the phone with each other. This truly does have 'bad idea' written all over it, but I can't find it in me to give two licks about it. It'll be fun, and Kurt will be there, and it might be my chance to prove to him even in this timeline that I've changed. I'm not the boy I was; it's clear that Finn leaked my sexuality to someone in ND, which I don't mind, because they are all really supportive (it's be hypocritical of them if they weren't; they supported Kurt, so why not me, too? I'm nicer to them now, anyway, so they have no reason not to be okay with my sexual orientation). I do worry about Santana telling everyone in the school, but since she quit the Cheerios and started dating Sam, she's been somewhat less of a vengeful bitch. Somewhat.

I guess it's settled, then, though: I'm supposed to go to a party I wouldn't normally be invited to, so there's that change at least, besides my irate apology and joining of the Glee Club.

Which reminds me: why was Slick so bugged about me joining, and seeing Kurt at Regionals? Knowing that guy, who seems like the type who's competitive (they always tell me how he's the lone soloist in the Warblers, always hogging the spotlight), telling me that wasn't actually in Kurt's best interests. I could be wishfully thinking right here, but I think he's jealous. He senses that I'm competition when it comes to Kurt, since I'm gay and interested.

Man, is that guy blind! Doesn't Blaine McDapperpants realize that I'm not a threat? Kurt hates my guts. I doubt he'll ever warm up to me in this universe, not without all the help I had with early, good timing the first couple tries around.

Whatever. I'll deal. And maybe I can use it to my advantage; maybe I can actually make it true, if only by a teensy bit. If I can get Kurt to at least befriend me, I can totally screw with Blaine's hair gel-ridden head and maybe even gain enough friend-status to be allowed to touch Kurt again.

I've been aching to ever since I saw him again, this older version of him, the one that kinda makes my jaw tense and my knees lock because his face is slimmed out with maturity and his build is more muscular and his closer to being flawless (since the freshman-Kurt did have a limited amount of ache at his hairline that he was desperate to rid himself of). And if being his friend in some way or another by some means is excuse enough to touch his hand, or shoulders, or give even the briefest of hugs again – I'd be perfectly content. I might never get to kiss him, or ever get the chance to eventually make love to him, but hey, contact is contact and when it comes to him, I'll settle for anything.

.o0o.

The week goes by painfully slowly. I'm literally being driven up a wall. Strando is being a dick, giving me a slushie facial every now and then. And Azimio is avoiding me. I think someone told him I was gay, because he hasn't said a word to me in a while, and he never looks at me in class. But he doesn't look angry; only confused and maybe even a little betrayed.

Finn and Rachel are progressively getting back together, and all because of me. I first I thought it was because of other relationship issues, but no; it's because the two are getting closer again while discussing me and Kurt, two people they've come to really care about.

It makes me feel even more like shit, like I really don't deserve it. But somehow, there's also that small light in the center of my chest like a tiny candle flame, something right and warm and tingly that lights up whenever they're being especially careful with me, especially pleasant. They really worry about me. What, do they think my depression is going to make me do something drastic? As if. I'm not like that.

Friday rolls around, and I'm anxious the entire day. I'm fidgeting and jumpy and grinning randomly and just… not myself. Well, at least, less like myself as compared to how I should be. Or was. I don't even know any more; my head is just so jumbled up from events of all these time-jumps that I don't even know how to handle things any longer. At this point, I think I'm just rolling with the punches, letting come what may, _que sera sera_ … all that jazz. Whatever.

I blow air out my mouth, my eyes trained on the clock as I wait for the final bell to ring after tenth period. I lick my lips, staring, staring…

And then the clock strikes, and the bell tolls, and I'm out the classroom door faster than Speedy Gonzales the mouse.

I bolt out the doors to my truck, start my baby up, listening to her purr as her engine warms up. Suddenly, right as I'm about to buckle my seatbelt and putt he car in drive, there's a knock on my passenger window.

Frowning, I click the automatic roll-down in the window across from me, and watch as Quinn leans in, her gloved hands on the rim of the window. "Hey, Karofsky," she says. "Mind if I tag along?"

"Oh, right. We're both going to Berry's. Yeah, sure you can, I guess. Why, do you need a ride?" I reply, a little distracted. Kurt's going to be there, and that's all I can seem to think about. I frown a bit as Quinn slips inside, an obvious chill running through her as her butt meets the cold leather seats in my truck.

"Yes, _unfortunately_ ," she says with a roll of her pretty honey-brown eyes. "So I hope you don't mind."

"Nah, it's cool," I say with a slight smile as I pull out of the school parking lot. "I'm just surprised you came to me of all people."

"You're growing on me," she admits with an ironic smile. "Besides, I was running out of options. And I didn't want one of those options to be going home with Rachel herself."

"If you don't like her, why are you even bothering to go to her house party extravaganza thingy?" I inquire as I slow down at a red light.

Quinn huffs, nearly snorting, her hands smoothing down her cutesy baby doll dress. She flips her golden hair back. "She's obnoxious, and always tries to gain control in Glee Club, but… she has some good ideas sometimes, and she's helped me before, and even though we've fought over the same man in the past and come from two completely different social circles, she's still, well… kind of my friend. It's difficult to explain."

"Is it a Glee thing? 'Cause being in it for a while like I have, I've noticed some stuff. Like how you all sort of have this common bond or something that makes you loyal to each other, even if you piss each other off sometimes and don't always agree on things," I remark lightly as I take a right turn and inevitably get closer to reaching Berry's house.

"…I guess it's a bit like that, yeah," Quinn agrees with an odd tilt of her head, as if she's only just now realizing the strange-but-comfortable relationship she and all the other gleeks have with one another. She smiles, and a small chuckle behind her closed lips fills the car for a moment. "Never really thought about it that way before. We'll all connected. I know I felt it for the first real time when Mercedes was in Cheerios last year and tried to be thinner by not eating. She and I weren't friends by any means, but… I was pregnant, and I understood, and I went through it, and just because we were both in Glee Club I thought it was okay to talk to her about it. Huh."

"See, I knew you weren't a heartless bitch like Santana."

She laughs. "Oh, no. No one's quite like Santana. But hey, she's not that bad, you know. She just… Huh. Actually, she's a lot like you, Dave."

I stiffen, and then furrow my brows. "Like… how?"

"As in, Santana and you both resort to cruelty when you're hiding how you're feeling. Santana… with her, it's all in what she _doesn't_ say, or the tone she uses when she says _specific_ things. Brittany assured me once that Santana said, 'It's not like I'm in love with you or anything.' And Brittany said she was confused because all they had been doing was kissing – like friends with benefits, I suppose – and that Brittany never said she loved Santana or anything. It makes me wonder, you know? Brittany doesn't think much about it, only was confused – what's new? – but still, it says a lot. Santana seeks revenge when she's hurt. She's bitchy towards the people she cares about most. And I think you have a similar problem. And don't even try to deny it," she tells me, and she's being utterly serious and a little reprimanding, but I deserve every last word. "Because after what Finn told me in confidence –"

"Shouldda known the guy couldn't handle keeping the secret to himself," I mutter, but I'm cool with it. I just want her to think that I'm not so that she doesn't tell more people. Because more people knowing I'm gay? That I'm not cool with. Not in _this_ timeline.

She ignores that I ever spoke over her. "– I know now that you picking on Kurt meant something." She pauses, then reminds me of what I technically already know: "Pretty much everyone in Glee knows, but we're all going to try and protect you. Not many other people in the school are aware, so you should be safe."

"Well, thanks for the support, I _guess_ ," I reply grumpily. "I know I sound a little weird right now, but I mean those words. The weird tone is just because I'm shaky as fuck." I lift one hand from the wheel, keeping my eyes on the road, and show her my nerves. I'm not kidding or faking; there's adrenaline and disquiet and joy and fear all running through me, making my body tremble, and my tone of voice lifeless.

"Oh my God," Quinn remarks softly, "You've got it bad." And she means my crush, I just know it.

"Fuck you, Fabray," I laugh, and she knows I don't mean it. "But really, lay off, okay? This… means everything to me. Not Rachel's party, but… who's gonna be there."

"I… I know, Dave," she replies, looking taken aback at my blunt, open honesty. "That's why I'm going to be here to help you. Rachel and Finn, too. We're on your side, even if you're a jerk."

"I knew there was a reason why I always liked you," I joke. "Even when you were a cheerleading bitch."

She laughs without humor, clearly not liking how the conversation is being steered back to her and her own personality issues. "I don't know. I wasn't very fond of myself back then. I still have my confidence, but after getting pregnant… Well. It makes you see things differently, I'll tell you that much," she says with a low breath. She's gazing out the window, now, at the lingering piles of snow and dirty street slush with a grey midwestern sky and brownish peeks of grass below the naked trees.

"Quinn," I say suddenly, and turn into Rachel's driveway. She had slipped me her address in the hallway today, so I hope this is right. It looks like it; I can see a rather obviously Rachel-esque window on the second story; there is a star on the glass, surrounded by pink, almost flowery curtains. I clear my throat, keeping my thoughts on track. "I… don't think I can do this. I'm glad you and everyone else is going to be there, I could use the backup, but…" and I leave it at that, the unsaid words hanging between us like fake gems on fishing line: strong, durable, but without value or any substantial meaning besides looking appealing on the outside. Words can be that way; that's why I don't want to voice them.

Just like Santana. She and I… well, Quinn's right about us. The Latino girl and I don't like showcasing how vulnerable we actually are. Every teenager does this, but I think Santana and I are the male and female examples of the extremes.

The blonde looks at me, staring hard, and leans over to touch my hairy forearm. "I know. I get it, I really do. Kurt can be… well, intimidating. I'd know; he and I have a few things in common at times. But he's lost some of his mojo, slowly trying to gain in back and recover, so he isn't the diva he used to be. He's still Kurt, but there's something else there. And tonight, if he drinks… He probably won't, since he and I have bad experiences with alcohol, but. Well. He might… show a bit of what's lying beneath."

'Something else there.' As in the bullied Kurt and the Dalton Kurt. Both are my doing, sadly. And yeah, I know exactly what she means. He's changed; matured, lost his edge, and needs the fire back (kind of like that song Buffy sings from the musical episode of _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ ; shut up, my mom was watching it, okay? And I wasn't allowed to change the channel, and I needed a distraction from my homework, and even if there was singing involved it was pretty good).

"Yeah, I'm aware," I reply quietly, tensely. But it's so quiet compared to the heating and soft radio in the car that she doesn't hear me. I exhale brokenly and open the car door. "Ready to have some fun, Miss Blonde-and-Uptight?" I say, avoiding the issue as I unbuckle myself.

She smiles triumphantly. She definitely knows that, like Santana, it's sometimes what I don't say. I hate that she's right, and hate even more that in this moment, she sees how correct she is. "Yeah, I'm ready. I'm also ready to win Sam back. Finn was something, but… I really want to be with Sam, dorkiness and sweetness and all." Quinn looks at me, winking. "Besides, Sam's easier to reach when we kiss."

I laugh at that, and help her out of my truck. She wraps her arms around my arm as we walk up to the front, and it feels weird, because it's something a girlfriend or two best female friends might do, not two people who happen to know each other might do.

When Rachel answers the door, she's breathless and smiling broadly. "Welcome, you two! You're both so cute. Come on in! Puck, Brittany, and Artie are already here, and everyone else should be along shortly. Well, except for Kurt and Blaine; they have to drive all the way from Westerville, so." The brunette giggles a little and smacks my arm playfully as soon as Quinn is off of it, going over to where Brittany is.

There's music playing – sounds a lot like Within Temptation, which is funny, because just this week Shuester paired us off with "unusual" partners, and I got Rachel, and she chose the duet of 'Utopia' by the same band. We actually sounded really awesome together, and it's partially what's made us closer friends, but I digress.

Mainly, my mind isn't thinking much about the scene or Rachel or anything. I just keep thinking of what she said: 'Kurt and Blaine… Westerville…' And I'm reminded all over again of our last encounter, as well as every other encounter in my personal past, jumps and all.

Regretfully, I indulge a smidge. Okay, so that's a lie; Puckerman keeps handing me drinks, laughing and singing along to some of the songs as he and Artie change the music, and then locking an arm around my shoulders as he goes on and on about nonsensical things. So I'm indulging a lot.

I take each drink and down it, not quite feeling the alcohol rush very much until I'm about three and a half drinks in.

"Man, you sure know how to hold your liquor!" Puck snorts a laugh, and slides off of me and onto a couch. I plop down next to him, grinning like an idiot. "Kurt can't. It's actually really funny. Last year, there was this woman. April Rhodes. Woman's such a cougar; I liked her. She made out with me, you know." He grins, too, and goes on, "But. Anyway. See, Kurt was all… looking for liquid courage, I think, or something, and April told him that alcohol would do it! And he couldn't get his paws on any one morning, so he drank – get this – rubbing alcohol. Ms. Pillsbury found him. He… wait for it, wait for it… He puked on her shoes! Her, Miss Germ-a-phobe! It was priceless!" and he falls over with laughter, slugging another drink.

Artie comes rolling by, Brittany in his lap, trying to be as fast as he can with both of them in his chair. He's a little tipsy, too, and Brittany must be getting there since her clothes are becoming scarce, and there's a dollar bill playfully tucked into her exposed bra. _What the fuck? Since when did she put on a striptease?_

I think I'm getting a little fuzzyheaded. 'Buzzed' might be a better term for it. And my situation isn't helped any when the music gets cranked up right as Kurt and Blaine come in through the front door. I'm smiling in that lazy way, and I pointedly make me way around Rachel as soon as the pair walks in the door.

Kurt goes rigid almost instantly at the sight of me. Blaine smiles pleasantly, but _pfft,_ I know the guy's faking. Forcing it. He doesn't like me, either. He wants to be neutral but I know that he can't be since he's knows I'm, like, a gay threat. Ha.

I start laughing as I greet them. "Look, it's the preppy lady boys! How ya guys been? You should join the party. It's fun in here." And I gesture around to everybody; Finn, Santana, Puck, Lauren (who looks pissed like she doesn't want to be here, but lately has this weird thing for her since he's realized how badass she is), Brittany, Artie, Sam, _everyone._

Rachel hollers (very tipsy, like me) how it's time for karaoke now that the best male leads from Dalton are here. Kurt sidesteps me, Blaine comes up close to his side, and they follow Rachel into the living room where the karaoke machine is set up.

I make my way to the kitchen. I should really sober up some more. I mean, it feels nice and airy and I wanted this, but now that Kurt's here…

Well. I think I'd screw things up less if I were, y'know, a little more aware of the stuff around me. So some food to absorb the alcohol, that is.

Rachel comes flittering in, nearly like a butterfly when she's tipsy. "Daaaave, why aren't you singing? C'mon, heyy, c'mon~! You need to sing with us, Davey! Here, are you hungry? Here, I made some snacks. Sorry, forgot them, haha! Here they are. But when you're done eating you gotta come sing with us, okay?" she says, and she's so opposite herself when she's drunk. She's nicer and happier and way less stressed and diva-like. I realize, now, that I love it when people are drunk; not the sick-drunk or the horny-drunk or the violent-drunk (because even I'm not that way), but the happy or emotional or confessional drunks. Those types of drunks are awesome. And apparently, Rachel is a very happy drunk.

"Okay, Rache, okay," I tell her, smiling a little, and I take a bite of something on a cracker. Tastes like cheese, but I don't know what kind. It's spicy and creamy, and with the cracker is tastes really good and is helping push out the alcohol.

"Is it goooood?" Rachel teases just before she leaves to return to the karaoke. "That's jalapeno pepper jack cheese. I like it. It's spicy but so yummy! Right?"

"Yeah, totally," I agree simply, and soon she's twirling away again, saying something like, "whoo!" or "whee!" as she goes.

I gobble up a few more cheese with crackers before I feel a little more stable and make my way out to join everyone else.

Kurt's still one of the few who's sober. Mike is right there with him, and I think Sam might be, but I can't tell.

"Dave, over here! You gotta sing with Blaine and me!" Rachel's saying, waving me over. Kurt sends me a look, something like a cross between curiosity and skepticism. That's how it's gonna be, huh? Well, I'll show him! My head's not very clear yet, so I might make a fool of myself, but damn it if I'm not gonna try!

"Yeah, I'm coming!" I tell her a little loudly, and stumble past Finn and Brittany, around Artie, whom are all sitting with the other Glee kids to act as an audience. Kurt's beside Finn on Finn's other side, and I make sure to steer clear of him. Once I'm next to the brunette, she hands me a mic and leans over to give me a peck on the cheek. It feels strange, but I smile broadly anyway.

"You and Blaine can start, and then I'll join in on the high parts in the chorus, okay? We're singing 'Take On Me' by A-ha, 'cause it's a classic and fun to dance to! Okay ready? Let's go!"

The music begins, and I try not to look at Kurt or think of how the lyrics oddly apply to me while I harmonize with Blaine, singing,

_"We're talking away  
I don't know what  
I'm to say;  
I'll say it anyway,  
Today's another day to find you  
Shying away  
I'll be coming for your love, okay?"_

Rachel joins in at this point, her voice melding perfectly in between Blaine's smooth voice and mine.

" _Take on me,  
Take me on  
I'll be gone  
In a day or two…"_

Kurt's making this weird facial expression now, something unreadable. He sits up straighter and avoids eye contact with any of us drunkards singing. He leans over to Finn and mutters something in the quarterback's ear. His stepbrother smiles, laughs a little, and shakes his head. He says something back to Kurt, and I'm a little distracted as I go on with the song:

" _So needless to say,  
I'm odds and ends  
But that's me stumbling away,  
Slowly learning that life is okay.  
Say after me  
It's no better to be safe than sorry…"_

I'm cringing slightly as I sing, because the lyrics hurt me. I'm sure Rachel chose this song for the exact reasons she stated: it's a classic, and fun to dance to, and she likes it, I'm sure. And I thought I did, too, until now. Even as I'm dancing half-assed and messily with Blaine wrapping his arm around my shoulder and dancing with me, Rachel coming over to his other side, I feel kind of sick. I feel like either that food and beer are both going to spring up again, or… or I'm simply slipping a bit into more Time Depression due to the fact that, well, this song is meaning too much to me right now.

" _Take on me,  
Take me on…  
I'll be gone  
In a day or two…_

" _Oh, the things that you say  
Is it life or  
Just a play?  
My worries away  
You're all the things I've got to remember…  
You're shying away;  
I'll be coming for you anyway._

" _Take on me,  
Take me on  
I'll be gone…  
In a day or two…"_

Finally, the song is just about over. I can relax, now, as the music fades out and Blaine falls over onto the floor, giggle-snorting and clutching the pink mic Rachel owns in his hands. I stumble off to the side, plopping down near Tina and Quinn.

Quinn cheers me on, saying that I sounded great with the few solo lines I had, and that I should always sing with Blaine because we sound good together. "Very suave," she jokes, and gives me a sideways hug.

But I still feel sick.

"I, uh… bathroom…" I mutter, and Quinn gives me a concerned look before smiling lazily (is she a little buzzed, too?) and nodding. I get up again, making my way slowly to the bathroom.

I dry-heave into the porcelain bowl, my voice echoing back at me against the water. I sniff, my eyes watering, and –

_Momma always said not to play ball in the house –_

I retch into the toilet, half of everything in my stomach emptying out. What is it with those weird, scattered, random thoughts that always pop up before you puke? I seriously hate them. And I think mine was like _Forrest Gump_ or something similar, and now I feel really dizzy and light-headed and –

_Bread makes you fat?_

Okay, Scott Pilgrim that time, and, "Uhhhhg, shit. I really hate drinking." I mumble aloud, one of my hands grabbing some toilet paper to dab my chin with.

"Then why'd you drink in the first place, dude?" comes a voice, and I feel groggy and teary-eyed as I glance up to find Finn in the bathroom with me, the door closed behind him.

I flush the toilet and close the lid, pivoting on the tiled floor to sit atop of it. I wipe a trickle of sweat from my forehead and peer at the floor, the tub; anything in the opposite direction of his face. I feel like I let him down or something.

"Does it matter?" I retort. I shrug, force myself up, wobble a tiny bit, then go to the sink to wash my mouth out with whatever Rachel has that tastes better than the bitter, disgustingly putrid thing I have going on in my mouth currently. "'Sides, you should be out there with ev'ryone else," I mutter as I cup some water in my hands, raise it to my lips, swish, spit it out, and then do the same with some overly minty Listerine.

"I came to make sure you didn't drown in your own vomit," Finn answers simply. His face shows nothing but confusion when I dare to glance at him through the mirror above me, watching as he has his arms folded over his chest behind me. "Maybe it was stupid to drink."

"We all are stupid for drinking," I say with a snort. "Ev'ryone out there. We're only, like, seventeen. We shouldn't be drinking yet, y'know?" I sigh gruffly, spit again into the sink, rinse the bowl, and dry my mouth with the towel hanging nearby. Turning to Finn, I add, "And anyway, I was only drinking because of your stepbrother. I can't be sober around him, or else I say a lot of even stupider stuff than a drunkard would, and I act way worse. So, consider me being sick a favor to him."

I brush past him and make my way out of the bathroom. He follows me, trailing behind in my shadow. Why is he being so persistent? I'm reminded, suddenly, of my first jump, when Kurt insisted that we try to get along. Maybe I should listen to Finn more. I dunno, the guy tries when it comes to me. We could really be friends, I think. But I don't know if I want to let him just yet.

Finn frowns and grabs me, forcing me to stand strong and face him.

Head reeling, I'm only just able to comprehend what he says when he tells me firmly, "For crying out loud, Karofsky! I mean, I know I heard you say at Dalton that you liked Kurt, but if he's driving you to drink, then what you feel can't be healthy, man! What's your deal, anyway?"

My deal? Hell if I know. I'm just some weird, time traveling guy who can't control a single thing in his life.

"…'Time traveling'…?" Finn murmurs, his facial expression instantly intense, surprised, serious. Not frustrated or puzzled any longer, only… overwhelmingly considerate.

Fuckfuckfuckfuck! Did I say that out loud? And what's with his face right now? Does he somehow –

"Holy crap. We need to talk, dude. Like, _right now._ Come with me for a minute," Finn says in a rush, and hauls me off to a random room – a study, I think – and sits me down into a chair. "Dave. Okay, man, you need to be really honest with me. Can you time travel? Like, after you get hurt or die or something?"

"Uh, yes?" I reply, guarded and unsure. Just what – How –?

"Oh my God! Then you're just like Kurt! He told me once that he's jumped twice in his life because something happened, and he told me just tonight that his most recent jump was the day we came to see him at Dalton. He was all like, 'Finn, I was so sick that day. I just came from when Miss Rhodes got me drunk the first time, before I did it myself later. Guess it stuck with me.' And he was all, 'I just came from such a nice reality, Finn. I wish you could have seen it. I got drunk because Dave and I were fighting again, but I liked him there. And then when I came here… he hated me. It hurt so much.' And I was sitting there thinking, 'This can't be real. How is this possible?' But he always tells me about things that he knows are gonna happen, and then they do, and I have to believe him! But if you can travel, too, then maybe you know what 'reality' thing he's talking about? Maybe there's still part of you in there that's from that other time or whatever and can make him happy again? Because Kurt's been really bummed lately, dude. And I think it's your fault for other reasons than what I first thought."

Whoa. Whoa. What? What is he saying? I can't… I can't process this, can't think… This must be a dream. It is, isn't it? It has to be! No way in Hell is Kurt also a jumper, somehow knows about all the hard work I did in my other redos, somehow knows how much I love him –

Head reeling even worse than before, I clumsily get up and bolt to the bathroom again, heaving without actually throwing up again.

"No, no, no, no, no…" I say, breaking down, sobbing into the bathroom appliance, my face hot with alcohol and tears and having my head hanging down, and suddenly there's a warm, comforting hand on my back, rubbing between my shoulders and making soft _shh_ -ing sounds. I shake my head, eyes squeezed shut, and use one hand to push a warm body away. "Go away, Finn. I can't take this."

"I'm not Finn," a calm, pretty voice replies. Nearly female, but I know better. I know that voice.

My eyes fly open. Blinking once, twice, thrice, I turn and face Kurt. He's kneeling on the floor beside me, his hand timidly returning to my spine, this time the fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt.

"Finn told me. Came and got me, too, after he explained to me in private what he discussed with you, however one-sided that discussion was," and he fakes a smile to ease the tension, but his face is soon falling flat, sad. "Dave… is it you, isn't it? I thought it was the same Karofsky I've always known in this timeline, but no, it wouldn't be, because you're in Glee. And you…"

No. This isn't happening. It shouldn't be. Kurt can't just up and be accepting toward me because he somehow-magically-impossibly was there in my last jump, knows how much I love him, and all of this has to be a drunken illusion, it has to be, especially when we're only at a party, and –

"HEY! ANYONE WHO WANTS TO PLAY SPIN-THE-BOTTLE SHOULD COME INTO THE LIVING ROOM RIGHT NOW!" Rachel giggles in a high-pitched voice.

_There will always be things you regret in the morning._

I'm torn between shoving Kurt away – he would be better without me, really, after all the trouble that keeps happening whenever I try to get with him, and how each time I'm there or nearly there, I jump – and grabbing him and kissing him.

"Kurt, don't. Please, don't," I utter gutturally. I'm choking on either more sobs or merely my own fears. Not sure which. "You – you don't know, okay? So just… just leave me alone tonight, all right? I really need to get home –"

"I'll drive you. Finn can follow behind and take me back here when we're done. Come on, let's get you up off the floor," he says, and his usually snobby self is being actually… kind. Compassionate. And he's offering to help me, but why? It can't be true; it'd be too perfect if it were true, that he's jumped a couple times and knows what I do. Things like that just don't happen! Besides, what in his life would he need to redo? He's not a fuck-up like me… He severs my thoughts by speaking again as he lets me lean against him, one of his arms around my waist, haling me up by the belt, and the other on my chest to stabilize my weight on him. "God, you're heavy. You really are an athlete."

I don't know why, but this makes me laugh.

"…And you really are very drunk," he comments. "It all must be kicking in full-power, now, even if you threw up part of it. How much have you drunk?"

"Um… about five things, I think. Or six. Y'know, in total. In the past, like… two hours. Or less. What time is it? I'm not used to drinking this young with such a low tolerance, haha…"

"Not very late. Maybe six o'clock or so. We all arrived early, remember?" he says, and Kurt's surprisingly strong – I let him push me a little when we were on the stairs that time, but his true strength revealed itself before when he shoved my second kiss away. So. I guess I get it, but not really. He just always looks so much smaller than me, even though he really isn't. We're almost the same height. We're just two different body types, I guess.

_And the bear cub fell in love with the Hostess Twinkie._

Shut up, brain. Your goofy, alcohol-induced, uber-gay thoughts aren't funny.

"I think they are," Kurt replies with a grin and curt (haha, like his name) chuckle as he settles me into the passenger seat of my own car.

Whoa, what? When did we get here? And… am I mumbling my thoughts aloud?

"Yes, you are. You're really drunk, Karofsky. Can you even tell how many fingers I'm holding up?"

Wow, Kurt's voice is so pretty. And his fingers are so pale and nimble and pretty, too. "Uh. Three and a half?"

"Close enough. There are two. And I'm glad you find my voice pretty, but the finger comment you could have kept to yourself," Kurt says with a smirk as he reaches past me and buckles me into my seat. And I can't even enjoy the brief contact because it happens too quickly and only processes in my head long after the action occurs.

A small whimper escapes me when Kurt leaves, closing the door behind him. Then he's digging my car keys out of my coat pocket. He's in the driver's seat, and Finn is holding out my coat to him through the open driver-side door. "I'll see you there," Finn says, and he's clearly sober, like Kurt.

"Dave," Kurt says, and did some time pass? I didn't notice. We're on the road, now. "I'm going to call you in the morning. I assume your phone number is still the same, since this is only junior year. But don't think you're getting out of talking to me, hangover or not. We need to talk and you know it." He's defiant, confident, a tad snotty, and just as flippant and serious as the old Kurt I know. "Also, you owe me a shirt. This one is all wrinkled and ruined now, from you clutching it too hard."

Yup, definitely still the Kurt I know. Even through every change and circumstance, he's still himself. I love this about him.

And if I said that aloud, Kurt doesn't comment on it. I pray, though, that this is a sign that I didn't say it after all.

_I'm getting sleepy…_

"We're here, Dave. Come on, get up. You can sleep it off as soon as I get you in through the door." Kurt instructs firmly but softly. He and Finn – who's suddenly here, too, in my driveway – help me out of my truck.

When my mom answers the door, she doesn't say a word outside of a "thank you" to my two peers. She seems to have known something like this was going to happen.

"Kurt, it's nice to see you," my mom whispers into his ear as I lean against her for support.

"I won't even ask how you know me, Mrs. Karofsky," Kurt whispers back, "Because I already know. It's nice to see you again, too. Take care of David for me."

"I will, sweetie. I'm just glad things are starting to work themselves out. My son needs you around," she replies as Finn leaves. Then Kurt is giving me a quick pat on the back before leaving, too.

And I'm really dazed and lost and just so very ready to collapse onto my bed and never move again.

"Come on, sweetie. Let's get you to bed. And for the record: you're grounded."

_Oh._ Fair enough.


	12. Chapter 12

_I hate hangover thoughts._

_They're painful._

_And random._

_And foggy-hazy-weird._

_And discombobulated, too, I guess._

_And disjointed._

_Or something._

_I don't even know._

_Each one is like a telegram._

_I keep thinking at the end of each one:_

_Stop._

_Blah blah blah –_

_Stop._

_Mostly because I really want them to stop. (Stop.)_

_Ow. Ouch. Owwie._

_Why. Why. Why._

_I really hate hangovers…_

_They feel like there's an earthquake in my brain,_

_And all I'm trying to do is sleep it off,_

_And all I want to do is see Kurt._

_I have so many unresolved issues going on in my life right now,_

_And just one constant, one aid_

_Would spare me a lot of trouble and pain (of all sorts)._

_Stop._

_Stop…_

"Stop!" I whine, and curl in on myself on my bed. Oh, someone please help me. Please. Seriously, PLEASE. I need… I need… "Moooom!" I yell, and the raised voice is like a clamp on my skull, squeezing and aching and _shitbloodyhellgoddamn_ , it hurts!

"I'm here, David, I'm here. Don't get your boxers in a bundle," she says with a roll of her eyes as she marches into my room and sits down on my bedside. She hands me a tall, cool class of water. I take it, sip it, and then let her pop a pair of small burnt-red pills – Ibuprofen – in my mouth. I wash them down, swallowing the water, and instantly feel better knowing that relief is coming soon.

"Thanks, Mom," I sigh.

"If you weren't originally twenty-three in the head right now, I'd be screaming at you for drinking underage. Physically, though, you're still very young and not as experienced as your brain, so maybe I should be on second thought," she remarks with a humorous smile. She takes my empty glass and sets it on my end table for a moment. She crosses her legs and leans forward, her chin in her hand, and her elbow on her overlapping knees. "Sweetie, tell me what's going on. Please? I'm your mother. I should know things happening in your current life."

"First, before I do, can I ask you a question?" I mutter, cradling my head in one hand and rubbing my temple. I crack open an eye and peer over at her.

Her hazel eyes that match mine peer carefully at my face, clearly studying me. Pursing her lips, she shrugs. "I suppose that's fair."

"…How do you know Kurt? When I was drunk, I remember you talking to him as if you knew him," I say, frowning lightly.

My mother smiles. "Let's just say that I've seen the future once, and he remembers it, since he was there. It was before his first jump, I'd imagine. He was about twenty-seven years old. Handsome, matured, happy. I met him then."

"…How did you two meet?" I want to know. I desperately need to know, because if it's at all on the same track as my wishful thinking – that Kurt and I are somehow together in the future, even as friends if not as lovers – then I need to hear it. Confirm it.

"Oh, baby, I can't tell you that! I don't know if it'll still be the same. What if things change again? I said that come events are inevitable, but others are completely discretionary. They could go either way or any way. So who knows if it'll still happen? But it did at one point, which is why Kurt remembers it."

Something strikingly painful whacks me in the face like a slushie, cold and full of dread and heartbreak. "Wait… d-does that mean…" My voice starts to lose its strength, and rapidly. I feel it crack, tears springing to my eyes, as I dare finish my question, "That Kurt died?"

Oh. _Oh._ I don't even want to think about it, even though I just asked it. I should have known. If he's a jumper like my mother, aunt, and me, then this must mean he died once. And – and some deaths are permanent. I mean, they have to be. So which deaths stick and which don't? Oh God, if this is at all like _The Time Traveler's Wife_ , I might scream. I hated that movie. My mom and dad forced me to watch it with them once, and I cried, and it's so not right the way I felt when I watched that movie. I felt so idiotic weeping like that. But picturing Kurt dying… I might start to bawl again. I couldn't take losing him like that. _Ever._

"…Not that time, no, sweetie. Please, don't cry," she says warmly, softly. She leans forward and takes me into her arms. I swear, ever since I became a jumper and came out to my mom, she's been a lot more loving toward me. It's a little scary, but not unwelcome. "No, he hadn't died then. He got hurt, knocked out, but didn't die. No coma, either; he simply woke up as a little bit different of a person. Either back from a jump or changed from what happened in the jump, I'm not sure. Sometimes certain realities dissolve completely, turning into dreams or nothing at all. So I don't know. But he didn't die, okay? Not then." She smiles minutely, "Hopefully not ever, since he's such a sweet boy underneath that sarcastic-bitchy-diva exterior."

"Okay," I mumble, sniffling, wiping the unshed tears, and gently pushing her away. "Good."

"Speaking of Kurt, do you want to see him today? It's just after one o'clock in the afternoon, and don't worry, it's still Saturday. You slept the night away and a better part of this morning, so you should be fine soon."

"Yeah, I will be," I say. "This is just the lingering affect. They're also partially from hunger, since I haven't eaten a real meal since lunch yesterday. Lunch right now and then seeing Kurt later sounds like a great idea."

"Of course. You're still grounded, but I'll allow Kurt. You two need to speak to each other," my mother agrees. "And hey, look: you get to be babied by me. What would you like to eat? I'll cook it up for you."

"…Um. I could go for some carbs. Maybe some pasta?" I offer, peering up at her as she stands from my bed.

"Spaghetti it is, then. But I'll whip up a quick white sauce; alfredo is easier to handle than marinara on a hangover-sick tummy; I'd know," she winks, and then turns and exits the room. "While I cook, you better go shower, David! Don't want to be a stinking beast when your friend comes over later," she adds, more reprimanding than teasing this time.

"Fine, fine," I shout back. Sighing heavily, I force myself out of bed and shuffle around my room, gathering clothes for the hamper before selecting some for today. I take the clean clothes into the bathroom with me, and after the steam has cleared and I'm showered and shaved and dressed, I clamber down the stairs.

My mom is waiting for the water to boil. As she does, she adds cream, salt, Parmesan cheese, garlic, and a dash of flour to a saucepan, stirring constantly, until the whole thing turns into a semi-thick white sauce. She adds some onion powder –just a smidge – and then it's done. She turns off the heat for a while and adds the dry noodles to the water.

"Smells great, Ma," I mumble as I take a seat at the kitchen table, my chair angled toward her.

"Yes, well. It's an old practice. And at this point, I'd imagine your life is extremely stressful, so I help where I can. I'm old and tired some times, but I know how it is better than anyone. Ninth jump, remember?" she remarks lightly. She frowns slightly. "David?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you still love Kurt Hummel?"

"…Uhg, do I even need to say it?" I grumble, pain radiating in my chest. I sigh when my mother waits silently for me to answer. "Yes, Mom. _God._ It's, like, become some fact of my life now. I hate it. I hate that I need him in my life so much. Why him? Why does he have to be so important to me? I don't want him to me. I feel stupid whenever I think about how he is, like, quite literally the love of my life or whatever. It's so unlike me to feel this way." I harrumph, and move to straddle the chair backwards, facing her as I rest my chin on my folded forearms over the top of the chair backing.

"You know, I asked myself that very same question when I was jumping. I kept asking myself, 'Why Paul? Why is he so important? Why do I love him so unconditionally? When did I even fall in love with him?' And then, once, to that jump into my future… I saw it. You, fully grown. What a close bond we had after something that apparently happened in a different reality of your adolescence that I hadn't yet seen. And your father, old and happily married to me, by my side and supportive of you. It made me want to make it a goal to have our family like that. Not without stress and such, but still happy with each other. Still loving."

And she talks all while watching the pasta and stuff.

And I keep thinking about how oddly grateful I am to have my mom around. She's been so great this entire time, and why haven't I noticed before?

"Hey, Mom?"

"Yeah?" she says distractedly, reaching to stir the noodles.

"I love you."

She smiles, huffs a laugh. "That's not something I hear very often from you. But I love you, too, son."

And I actually feel pretty good right now, for the first time in ages.

.o0o.

I'm wildly pacing the floor as I wait for Kurt to arrive.

_'I'm coming over,'_ he sent me in a text about twenty minutes ago, _'No exceptions, Karofsky. Now that you're all sobered up, I demand to that have much-needed chitchat with you. –Kurt.'_

And I can't turn him down, right? Of course not. So I didn't. I told him to come over in ten minutes. It takes about ten to be here. So he should be here. Soon. Now.

"Where is –"

Cue the sound of a car door slamming outside.

"He...? Oh." I laugh nervously to myself, clear my throat, ignore my mom's knowing smirk, and make my way over to the door.

Opening it, I find Kurt storming up the path from my driveway. "Do you have any idea how hectic traffic is when there's the thinnest of layers of black ice on the roads? Everybody goes into a state of panic! I understand that it's merely February and therefore wintry, but _still._ Sheesh!" He shakes his head, adjusts his hair, and steps inside my house. Smiling, he glances around at the interior. "I almost forgot what it looked like in here, in detail."

I take his coat for him, hang it up on a hook behind the door, and awkwardly offer him something to drink like my mom reminded me to do before he arrived. He declines, and then makes himself at home as he moves over to my living room and sits down.

"So. I'm supposing you would care to hear my winded tale of jumps, right?" Kurt acknowledges seriously, leaping right into the topic. "But I'd rather hear your tale first. I need to make sure you're who I think you are."

"Me?" I snort, offended. "Dammit, Fancy, like you even need to _ask._ If what Finn said was true, then I'm the same guy I was not a month ago – or was it about that long by now? I can't tell; whatever, it was the day before Finn brought me to Dalton – when we were kissing in any place we liked, like behind trees and around corners in hallways and we were only sophomores, and we were in football together. But I fucked up. I got hit. Hit real bad, and got knocked out. The last thing I remember before waking up in this shitty version of my life is an ambulance wailing, lights and blurry images everywhere, and your horror-stricken face."

Kurt is going white. "That… that explains it, then," he murmurs. "Why we got into a fight afterwards. Why you started picking on me. It wasn't you anymore. You jumped then. And then… Oh, oh, _oh,"_ he murmurs, shaking his head. He takes in a shuddering breath and glances away. Clearing his throat with a cute little sound, he whispers, "I lied to Finn. I told him I was sick when you two came to Dalton, sick from leftover drunkenness from my most recent jump, but that's a lie.

"I never jumped back to this timeline; this isn't the first one, Dave, the one we went through initially. If it were, you wouldn't be here like this. You wouldn't be in Glee. This one… is the same one you left, or at least it is for me. For you it isn't; for you, up until Finn asked you to apologize to me, it's been the first timeline. But for me…"

He shakes his head mournfully, suddenly flipping his entire attitude as he recounts his tale. I'm sucked in. I'm watching each and every emotion flicker across his face. And I can feel my heart aching for him, for the way he looks right now, and for each and every word.

"I've gone through this entire time with you suddenly being a bully to me, suddenly not remembering ever having came out or kissed me, and people just accepted that you were bi-curious or unsure before but now knew that you weren't gay. I even tried to follow in your footsteps by repeating the fling I had with Brittany, but it was hopeless. I only wanted you. And yet I had to watch as you hurt me time and time again, and then you kissed me still, the same as the first time, and it shocked me but gave me hope, but when I tried to confront you about it – Blaine acting as an anchor – you were just as defensive and cruel as before.

"And it only got worse when you started to show more interest but also threaten me like the first time, and I couldn't take it anymore. I had to leave to Dalton. I couldn't _breathe_ when you who meant so much to me was suddenly my enemy. I didn't care that you were my enemy the first time; I hated you then. But after jumping from twenty-seven to fourteen and getting to know a different you, I…"

He drifts off, looking pained, his eyes darting away from mine, his hands twisting up in his lap. I inch forward, torn between going over there and comforting him or staying put. Would he want me to comfort him? Would he let me? Would it be all right if I did? What does this make us, anyway? Friends, foes, rekindled lovers…?

Nibbling my bottom lip, I choose to switch from the loveseat to the couch, sitting beside him and wrapping an arm around his shoulder. He leans in, presses his face to my shirt collar, and letting a dry sob escape his throat around a shuddering breath.

"I think I fell in love with you. You were awe-inspiring then, being the first to come out; but I was afraid I'd ruin things, or make you revert back too soon, or even make myself come out too soon, and I wanted you to progress; all of which are why I chose to play it out like I had, act the way I did. And… a-all those kisses, they were perfect. They erased the bad memories I had of you kissing me. But after all that, you _changed._ So when I saw you again… it made my stomach turn and my body yearn, and I couldn't handle it. I didn't throw up, but I cried. When I left for the bathroom in the middle of that four-way conversation… I cried."

And he starts to cry now, turning further into my chest, one hand coming up and gripping tightly to my shirt, and I can't help myself; I wrap both arms around him and tug him close, hauling him sideways onto my lap. I rock back and forth a little, feeling his arms snake up to enclose my neck in a loop. He breathes quickly, shallowly, and doesn't shed many tears, but does increase his grip every now and then.

"I-I missed you. Missed _this._ I wondered if I'd ever ha-have it again, or if I dreamed it all," he breathes against my neck, tilting his head up to graze my earlobe with his nose. I shiver when his lips suddenly press a damp kiss to my jaw. "Dave… was it ever real? It was, right? We were together once?"

"Almost twice," I admit softly, lowly, roughly in a hurt sort of way. "It's really fucked up, time. Especially for me. Death and life, too; I barely know the difference any more, since I've started relating both to time and other realities and whatnot. But… yeah, we were. In that timeline you described, but… also another. One where I redid that first kiss I stole from you, and apologized right then and there after I kissed you. We were friends, and I was going to your house once when some hate-crime-causin' gangster-like fuckers came along and shot me. Think I mighta died then, like I did when I drowned the first time. In that gunshot-ended world, we were going to date. And jeez, I'm rambling, and hearing this probably is making you feel worse, but it's the truth, I swear."

Kurt nods against me, and moves to straddle my lap. But it's not all that sexual; he's just trying to look into my eyes better.

He scans my face, his eyes going side to side repeatedly. I watch them narrow for a second, then grow soft and almost seem to glow as his eyelids fall to half-mast. "Dave," he murmurs, "I will do everything I can for whenever I have to jump to make sure you aren't a jerk, I'm not an arrogant dumbass, and we wind up together, okay? Because this dancing around each other is getting ridiculous. Clearly the fates are wiser than we, so we should listen to them. And you should do the same."

I smile ironically. "You sayin' you love me, Fancy?"

"That's precisely what I'm saying," he utters in all seriousness.

The smile slides right off my face. I nod once. "Then yeah. I'll promise that, too. Because I want you, Kurt. I always have, but I never did anything about it, and I did it all wrong. But I tried. Just seeing you again made me want to try. And actually having you for a little while when I did? It made me realize just what I was willing to sacrifice to keep it like that."

He smiles like he just won a Golden Globe award. "You saying you love me back, Neanderthal?"

I laugh despite myself, and it comes out just a hair breathless and sad. "Yeah. Yeah, that's exactly what I'm sayin' to you."

"Then kiss me, idiot. I need you to prove it," he commands, and he looks a little childishly desperate, the plea hidden behind the command. I don't miss, either, the way he leans in, arms slipping down my back, dragging me closer.

Our noses bump. I angle my head and press my mouth to his. Kurt makes a muffled, keening noise, and it melts into a blissful sigh once I dare to start moving my lips. Overdone as it is, as soon as he sighs, I want to slip my tongue between his lips. But Kurt beats me to it. He opens his mouth wider and licks timidly at my upper lip until I comply – delayed in reaction like a rusty castle gate. I distantly pray that my mouth doesn't taste too bad.

I hum into the kiss, suppressing moans, as I let my tongue suckle and play with his matching slick muscle. It feels right; like two magnets connecting, like two broken hearts completing the other. Because we've both been hurt by and for each other, and part of me feels dread sinking into the pit of my stomach because, well, what if I jump again and lose him? Where would I go, what would happen? All I want – everything I need – is this, right here:

Kurt folding his arms behind my neck and scooting closer on my lap, until our chests touch lightly.

Kurt moaning, gasping, and pressing up against me as he kisses me with everything he's got.

Kurt's hips under my hands.

Kurt's skin just barely under my fingertips, warm and supple and smooth.

Kurt moving one forearm from horizontal across my shoulders to vertical behind my head as he ties his fingers up in my curly hair, which is longer at the moment than it's been in the past.

Kurt's other hand sliding down my back, nails digging half-moons even through the fabric of my cotton tee.

One of my hands slipping under his shirttail, being careful not to mess it up like he would disapprove of, and feeling out the dip of his spine, his skin hot to the touch.

And I'm so thankful my mom knows to leave us alone and stay in her room, because now I can feel Kurt pushing me backward into the couch, laying me down as we both move sideways, plastered together, and I can feel him, all of him, touching all of me as he lays on top of me.

He props himself up, breaking our continuous, panting kisses. "Dave," he breathes, "This is not the time nor the place."

"I know."

"Your mother could walk in at any moment."

"…I know."

"We both should stop before any situations develop downstairs."

"…Kurt, I think you're referring to my junk, and um, I'm sure you can tell, but there's already a 'situation' down there. So if you could just stop talking and give me a chance to get up for a second to calm down, then I might actually be able to listen to you."

"…I was trying to suggest that…" Kurt mumbles, but complies. He sighs as he climbs off of me and sits down at the edge of the couch. I follow suit, sitting about two feet away from him. He fixes his hair (but it's not like it was very messed up to begin with) and glances over at me. "What are we doing, Dave? We went from talking to kissing in point eight seconds flat. Who does that?"

" _We_ do, apparently," I snort in reply. I run a hand through my hair to distract myself from looking at how deliciously swollen his lips are from _me_ kissing him. Not Blaine or anyone else. Solely _me._ Shit, I really need to calm down and not think about Kurt's mouth. "But it makes sense, right? I mean, in my head it does. I love you and want you and stuff, so…"

"…That's probably the first and last time I'll ever hear you say those words directly, isn't it?" Kurt teases, but there's a ringing sour note in the depths of his tone that reminds me that it's possible that this could be the only time I'll say it.

"I honestly don't know, Kurt," I sigh. "For all we know, we're making these jumps because we're both gonna live very short lives. I don't want to think about it. I just want to hold you, actually," I add at the end, smiling reassuringly. "Sorry, that sounded totally gay."

"Utterly. But in case you haven't noticed, David, we were two males making out not a moment ago. That's the definition of 'gay;' without the actual sex, of course."

"…Uh. Of course," I mumble, blushing slightly.

Kurt's gaze softens. "Gaga, I forget how sweet you can be. And how easily embarrassed. Where was all that when you were bullying me?"

"Um… buried deep down inside beneath my Narnia-wardrobe-thick closet doors?" I offer with a raise brow.

It's funny and cute how he almost-creepily-but-entirely-awkward-instead chuckles at this, a chuckle that sputters into a real laugh. "Right. That's clearly it." Smiling, he glances at his coordinating silver watch and frowns suddenly. "Shoot. I need to go. I have somewhere I must be." He sends me a reluctant look, lips parted and eyes poignant. "I'll see you again soon, all right, David? I'm thinking of transferring back to McKinley. It's too expensive at Dalton, and too far, and I really need to be near you again like we were. And I heard you're mostly out, now, right?"

"Not to half the school, but I'm sure I could be completely out again pretty quickly if you transfer back. I wouldn't be able to resist holding your hand in the hallway, anyhow," I joke, not sure if I mean it, but it earns me a tender kiss on the cheek, so hey, I'll take what I can get.

"I might hold you to that, David," Kurt grins. Shit. "But I won't pressure you. I'm just glad you're not being a creepy asshole to me any longer."

"I hated myself for being that way to you," I admit nearly inaudibly, and Kurt takes sympathy on me for this. He leans down, gives me another slow peck on the cheek, then moves to my lips, but doesn't kiss them. Instead, he simply brushes his mouth over mine, down my chin (and I'm glad I'm freshly shaven for this), and underneath my jaw.

Against my neck, he insists, "I really do have to go, now. Behave, Dave."

"Haha. Cute," I reply sarcastically at his rhyme as he pulls away. He simply grins and heads out again, grabbing his coat.

Once he's gone, I'm left a little speechless and amazed and smiling like the oaf I am. Except one thing puzzled me: Kurt only mentioned one jump of his, the one where we were freshman together. What about his other jump? What did he see or do? Now I worry…

Although I can't dwell on it. I have things I have to attend to. Like my laundry, and homework, and swearing my prying mother to secrecy since I know she probably overheard everything (and embarrassing as that is), and preparing for the day Kurt returns to McKinley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In regards to timelines and whatnot: as soon as Dave jumped from the freshman/sophomore timeline, things reset. except for with Kurt, because Kurt is also a jumper and therefore can recall the events of jumps that pertain to him. but everyone else? it doesn't concern them as much, which is why they don't remember Dave coming out the first time and whatnot. they are like branches off of the main tree, and when you chop the tree down, the branches can grow back but the roots stay the same. -I hope this analogy helps, because it's the best i can come up with.


	13. Chapter 13

_"That's probably the first and last time I'll ever hear you say those words directly, isn't it?"_

_No, Kurt._

_The first time I said them I was barely awake while on the phone with you,_

_And you were singing me to sleep._

_But it wasn't from a timeline you'd recall._

_I think, though, that was the first moment I let myself feel fully and freely,_

_And I realized that I was in love with you irrevocably and absolutely._

Smiling stupidly to myself, I keep these thoughts locked up tightly like gold in a treasure chest. I roll over onto my side, close my eyes, recount the moment from earlier today when I had Kurt in my grasp and his mouth on mine, and then I slowly drift off into sleep.

But one final thought amuses me a little as it comes creeping into my head: _Mentally, at least, now I don't feel so bad about liking Kurt; because as it turns out, I might be twenty-three in the head, but he's twenty-seven in the head, making us balance out in a peculiar way._

.o0o.

"It's terribly cliché, but nothing quite makes a statement like strutting down the halls while holding hands. Except… this isn't how I thought it would be." Kurt sounds far less confident all of a sudden. "Dave, everybody is _staring_ ," he quips tensely, nervously. He's leaning up and over, murmuring into my ear, his breath tickling my neck.

"Let them stare," I grumble, shooting one disgusted-faced, mullet-haired, hockey jock a dirty look. I peer over at Kurt, absorbing his worried and annoyed expression, and grin deviously at it. "This is the first time I've gotten to really do this publicly-dating-you thing, and I fuckin' love it. So if these assholes are confused why you're with your bully – which, yeah, might look a little messed up since they don't know the _other_ history we have together – or if they're grossed out that our fingers are laced and we're both guys, well, then they can suck a hairy pair of money balls, 'cause I could care less what they think anymore. I've been through pain of death, and I'm just fed up with all of them."

"This is high school," Kurt agrees with a firm nod as he swallows, letting my words sink in. "Nobody knows anything about life yet, anyway."

"My point exactly," I retort with a smirk, and turn back to walking down the hallway. One teacher in particular frowns at us, and I just wink at her, which makes her gape and turn abruptly away. Ha, this is actually kind of fun, weirding people out; I gotta remember to do it more often. It's oddly satisfying to be out and proud and with the guy I love despite the odds stacked against us.

I even get a little high on it, making a point to raise Kurt's hand linked with mine to my lips. I press a soft kiss to his knuckles and another to the center of the back of his hand.

One girl, however (come to think of it, since I've been through the scene enough in my lifetime, I think it's the same girl who was at her locker when I knocked Kurt's phone out of his hands before he chased after me into the locker room), smiles at us, grinning broadly like she approves of our change in personal situation.

I approve. I might be biased in saying so, but really, I just think that it's a good message; redemption and all that. Fear to forgiveness, pain to love. It can happen, right? But I think the time traveling helps. Just a bit.

"Dave," Kurt murmurs at the end of the day, climbing into his car with me. Looking embarrassed and happy at the same time, he hands me his keys and indicates that I'm allowed to drive. "I was so proud of you today, especially proud of your devil-may-care attitude when it came to other people's reactions. I guess you actually _do_ love me." And he grins triumphantly.

"Told you I did, didn't I?" I joke right back, and reach down to start the car. "I've practically built up an immunity to these things, now. I was scared shitless and all self-loathing over my sexuality before, the first time around, but after jumping so many timelines and seeing that, for the most part, being gay isn't so bad? I've gotten stronger, and also gained the ability not to care anymore. With the exception of that time I got shot at, and my garage was fucked up – I know you don't remember it at all, but I told you all about it – it's not that bad."

Kurt's nose wrinkles. "I feel ill every time you mention that story. I'm glad I don't remember it; I'd be a mess if I did. You were hated that much, and I had to watch you die? That's a nightmare to me, David."

"Funny, considering the fact that I'm sure, in our original lives, I was probably in your nightmares anyway, except as the monster and not the victim," I grumble with dripping irony.

Kurt frowns at this and reaches over to touch my hand on the steering wheel as I take him to the mall for a post-school date. His dad still doesn't know that we're dating, though. He wouldn't understand, at least not yet, and not with all the nearly unexplainable time skips in between that flowed in a way that brought Kurt and I together through even some of the worst bullying. In place of being with me, Burt thinks that Kurt is going by himself. He doesn't even know that Kurt picked me up for school this morning.

As if reading my thoughts on the matter, Kurt changes the topic and makes a guilty click of his tongue. He releases his hold on my hand and murmurs quietly, "My dad doesn't know that I've time-traveled before. Only you and Finn know."

"Really? But… why Finn? Me I can understand, since I do it, too, but, again: why Finn?"

"Because I needed him on my side, and I figured that if anyone would be dopey enough to believe me with little proof, it would be him. Well, Brittany would believe me even without proof, but I'm not as close to her. I needed somebody close. So I chose Finn, my lovable idiot of a stepbrother." He laughs. "I don't mean that, actually. Finn can think on his feet or be generally thought _ful_ when he needs to."

"…But Hudson can also be really, _really_ foolish about things, too," I remind him.

"Oh, definitely; I'm not denying that at all. Sometimes I wonder if I became brothers with one of the Three Stooges. He's that clueless and childishly minded at times. But I love him anyway," Kurt remarks fluidly. He smiles. "Actually, I told him once that I honestly loved him, and it was true; I looked up to him in that brotherly way even without realizing it. He and I are like true family, now. We work in an odd way. Carole is even playing up the pun and calling us Kinn. Goodness, I love that woman's mind."

I make a noncommittal grunting noise. "Guess I should meet her someday, then."

Kurt makes a face, and I wonder if it has anything to do with the bit of his (or our?) future that I don't know, since he did live a bit longer than me before his first jump. "Yeah, I guess you should," Kurt replies meekly, and glances out the window.

When we arrive at the mall, I'm hyperaware of the fact that we hadn't said much since that point, music from the radio filling most of our silence. I don't know what Kurt thought of to change his mood like this – I'm not in his head, after all – but I do know that shopping is definitely going to cheer him up. Kurt loves shopping; getting new clothes, accessories, etcetera. I've learned that enough from observing his clothes over the years, and actually going to the mall with him in the past.

When we walk into the building, Kurt takes my hand and leads me down the temperature-regulated, perfume- and factory-scented aisles until we reach the main mall, shops lined up all around us.

"Ohh! Forever 21~!" Kurt exclaims, and drags me in. He starts tossing clothes at me to catch for him as he browses the racks and tables for deals on some of the latest (albeit girly) fashions.

"Kurt…? Aren't some of these, uh, girl clothes?"

"Oh, most of them are; especially the skinny jeans," Kurt says with a shrug. "But I've said it once and I'll say it again: fashion knows no gender. And besides, it's not drag unless I make it overly gaudy and full of make-up and stuff. And that's just not me. I like clothes that are borderline-feminine, since they go best with my pathetically boyish looks." And he's so casual about it that I feel a little less uncomfortable.

I put on my pokerface and simply go through the motions as he selects half a wardrobe and puts it in my arms. Then he asks an employee to unlock a dressing room stall for him, and he takes me down that way and asks for me to hand him clothes over the stall door as he tries them on.

Each outfit he walks (runway-struts, more like) out in to show me is sexier than the last. I think he's doing it on purpose; he's excited to be back at McKinley to swear whatever he likes and be bold and different than everyone else, and because of that, he's going all-out extravagant with his choices. Every single last fucking one brings out the color of his skin, or hair, or _eyes,_ or lips; and each one hugs him in a different perfect place or in a certain manner that shows off his hips, or his _ass_ , or his chest, or his legs, or even his arms. He's definitely matured since last year or how he was freshman year in my still fresh memory. And damn, is he _hot_ in these new clothes.

I want to tell him so, but I'm a little too distracted to do so. Each time he asks, "How do I look?" or, "What about this one?" all I can say in return is simply:

"Uh… g-good. Yeah, that looks really… _good."_

Fucking amazing-sexy-fantastic sort of good. The sort of good that I want to snap photos of and keep with me like some fuckin' creepy stalker. But I'm dating him, so maybe it's less stalkerish and creepy, but… I don't know. I really don't. It's difficult to think when most of my brain processes are currently straining to keep the blood flow in the head on my shoulders instead of letting it sink down to the head between my legs.

Coughing into one hand and glancing away as Kurt merges from the stall back in the clothes he came in, I ask a tad shakily, eyes still off of him, "S-so… what are you buying?"

"All of it."

"All of– what? Do you even have that kind of money?" I state, shocked, looking at him in disbelief.

"Are you kidding? Of course I don't. I've been saving plenty of cash since attending Dalton and not buying new clothes for a while, but I still need a little help, especially for this _extremely cute_ powder blue sweater that is the only item I have not on sale or from the clearance rack. And so… you're going to buy it for me."

"Bossy," I grumble, but even so, I'm whipping out my wallet and sighing. "How much?"

"About twenty-four dollars. Which is actually cheap for something like this," he shrugs, sending me one of his special smiles I recognize from when he directs it at his friends: this is his manipulative, _aren't-I-cute-and-don't-you-want-to-apease-me-because-of-how-cute-I-am?_ smile. Yeah, that one. It's irresistible, and even as I groan and reluctantly hand over a twenty- and a five-dollar bill, I can't help but wonder why, inside, I find this little transaction so _normal._

Must be the few times when I played being straight and took a girl to the mall, and she did something similar. Huh.

After blowing most of our loot on his clothes from Forever 21 and a couple from another store whose name I don't recognize half as well, we stop by a vendor with Dippin' Dots in the middle of the mall.

Sitting down on a bench, Kurt rolls the balls of ice cream – banana split for him, chocolate mint for me – around in his plastic cup before slipping them into his mouth. It seems I can't escape Kurt's guilty pleasure with ice cream; the guy eats on a strict diet otherwise, even getting his coffees all no-whip, soy milk, healthy/low-calorie styled, but when it comes to ice cream, he gets whatever he likes. But always in moderation – smalls and mediums, never larges – and only on occasion.

I could probably learn a thing or two from him.

Glancing over at him and smiling minutely despite myself, I spy a stray chocolate dot melting on his upper lip like a beauty mark. "Uh, Kurt? You have a little…"

"What?" he asks, licking his lip. I watch with open fascination as his pink tongue flicks out and swipes at the melted Dippin' Dot and retreats back into his mouth.

Adverting my gaze, I mutter gruffly into a prepared bite of ice cream on my spoon, "Um. Nothing. You got it." And proceed to shove the bite right in to shut myself up.

Suddenly Kurt's laughing, and I feel the cool skin of his fingers reaching over and brushing my chin. "You're awkwardly adorable, Karofsky. And look," he says, showing me his thumb; there's some creamy green on it. "You 'had a little something' on your face, too," and he sticks his thumb in his mouth, pad-side up, and makes a suckling noise as he pulls it out of his mouth.

_Nguhh._

"Damn you, Kurt," I hiss, sinking lower onto the bench. "You such a g'damn tease. You find joy in sexually frustrating me, don't you? You sadistic bastard."

"I think it's always been that way, even when I wasn't doing it on purpose," Kurt says with a smirk. "But yes, I do find some thrill in it. I suppose it's a power thing; I feel powerful having the ability to stir desire inside of you."

"Oh my God, you better stop talking _right. Fucking. Now_ ," I say through clenched teeth, but I burst out in wickedly loud chuckling promptly afterward. The devious-and-pleased smile Kurt sends me is both adorable and obnoxious at the same time; it's like I want to grab him by his shirt collar and either hit him (which I would never do anyway) or kiss him senseless.

"I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm not," Kurt retorts fluidly. "After all, I've been waiting forever to be this way around you. It's perfect." And just to prove it, he takes a happy nibble on some more ice cream.

Okay, I can't help it. Even when he's being annoying, it's endearing, so I laugh. I finish off my own ice cream, and so does he, and as we toss out he plastic cups and spoons, he slips his cold fingers into my hand, which is surprisingly warm after having something so icy in its grasp moments ago.

I worry my lip over the fact that it's more public displays of affection, but no one seems to care, and if they do, I'm not catching their dirty looks. So I relax some, my lips slipping out from between my teeth. Kurt laces our fingers together, his other worming its way into his pocket for warmth.

"It's a little chilly in here, don't you think?" he mutters, glancing around. "You'd think they'd want to keep some heat circulating in the winter."

"But it's early March. Spring is, like, right around the corner," I remind him.

He rolls his turquoise eyes and gestures with his free hand as it slides out of his jeans pocket. "That's doesn't matter at all. We live in _Ohio_ , Dave. _Northern_ Ohio. Here isn't much better than, like, Indiana or Illinois or Pennsylvania; it's technically the Midwest, and the Midwest is generally very cool-weathered. And I hate it."

I quirk a brow. "What, so you're saying that you'd rather live… where? California?"

"That would be lovely, yes," Kurt smiles warmly, his fingers tightening around mine for a moment. "Just imagine: what if I cut a record deal there? Or got into acting? Or, just as good, something like runway fashion design, or interior decorating, or wedding planning? Any of these things sound like perfect dream-jobs to me."

"But… don't you already know what you're going to do?" I whisper as I lean in to speak into his ear, so that no one else hears me. "You were twenty-seven before you jumped, right?"

He sighs at length. "Yes, but I was still so much of a child; job-hopping, and I was trying to live in New York after finally getting out of Lima for a while. For so many years, college and afterward… I just couldn't leave my dad or his mechanic shop. But at around age twenty-six, I decided, 'screw this,' and moved east, to the Big Apple. But I think I should have played my cards better and went westward instead, to some place like Cali. It would have been better for me. Which is why, now that I'm younger again, I figured could be the perfect chance to start over," he returns in a low voice, sneaking me off into an abandoned corner of the mall next to a closed-down store to tell it to me without being overheard. It's kind of funny, keeping our time-travel separate from everyone else; who knows if we even need to or not? There could be do-overs happening all around us and we wouldn't even be aware of it.

Nodding, I agree with him. We begin walking again, this time headed for an exit to go home. "Then let's do it. We can go to California for college, get some dead-end jobs until we can work our way up the social pyramid. And we can live in San Fran or something, so that I won't feel half as bad for being gay, and you can be as out and proud as you want."

Kurt gapes at me for a moment before turning out of my hand and stopping dead in his tracks. He wraps his arms around my neck and hops into a hug, hanging on my a little as he squeezes me tightly. "Oh, that has to be the best thing I've ever heard!" He releases me, looking more excited than I've ever personally seen him, and gives me a peck on the cheek, right there in the mall where everyone can see. And yet… I find myself not minding it in the least. "Honestly, thanks for that. I want to make it happen, now. For sure." Jokingly, he adds, "But who knows if we could get married or not. California changes its gay marriage policies quicker than fashions change seasons. They're so wishy-washy on the subject that it almost makes me dizzy."

I chuckle at that, and take his hand again as we exit the mall. I admittedly have a thing for his hands; they're always so smooth and vary in temperature, and I love how they feel so much smaller than mine, yet still manly, if that's possible.

When we get to his car, Kurt's cell phone goes off. "Huh. It's Blaine," he says offhandedly. " _Un moment, s'il vous plait,"_ he asks of me in French.

Fuckin' A, I love it when he speaks French. I squirm where I stand, pretending that I'm not half as turned on by him switching to another language as I am.

Kurt answers his phone, his face lighting up in a falsely surprised manner. "Blaine, hi! How're you, babe? …Ah, that's good, that's good… Oh, me? I'm out with my boyfriend. Huh? Oh. Uh. You're right, I never did tell you, did I? I'm sorry! Yeah, it's kind of a… recent thing. …Who? Ah… yeah, you know him. …No, he isn't a Warbler. I'm back at McKinley now, remember? …What? Of course it isn't Finn! Don't even joke, Blaine, you know he's my stepbrother. …Haha, no, it isn't 'the guy with the Mohawk' or 'the gentleman in the wheelchair.' …Stop guessing, and I might tell you! Yeah. No. Yeah. Shut up, you! Haha. – It's Dave, okay? Karofsky. …Yeah, I'm well aware how this looks. And no, I don't care, and yes, he does make me happy, before you even ask either of those questions. …Er, how? 'How' is such a vague term, Blaine. And so is 'when.' Can't I just leave it as, 'it happened, and it's going to stay this way?' …Okay, thank you. See, I knew you'd understand; you're so good with these things, you dapper gent. – Ah, no, don't use your dapper will against me! I am powerless! Hahaha. Okay. Okay, Blaine. Take care. Bye."

And as he hangs up, I'm only comprehensive of two things: one, that Kurt and Blaine are still very good friends, and thankfully, this makes Blaine nowhere near a romantic threat any longer. And two? That Blaine knows about the two of us like all of McKinley does. Huh, wonder if that'll have any repercussions? I doubt it; the slick-haired guy is all the way in Westerville, but still, one can never be too careful.

"So, is everything cool?" I pose nonchalantly as we climb into his car. Kurt buckles himself in, an unreadable expression on his face.

"I used to look up to him so much," Kurt murmurs thoughtfully, "And at one point, I thought I was in love with him. But after having _this_ , with you… I feel like anything I engage with him in isn't quite the same, isn't as right as it once was, isn't as… I don't know. I still like him as a friend, but I think he's seeking something more this time around, but I want nothing to do with it. And I somehow feel guilty about that. But I shouldn't, right? You're my boyfriend and he's not. I chose you. I shouldn't feel this torn about how he sounds every time I talk to him on the phone, shouldn't care how hurt and suddenly cold he sounded out of jealousy when I told him that it was you that I'm dating." He shakes his head sourly, pounding a fist onto the airbag-labeled square of dashboard in front of him. "I hate this! Why can't things be simple?"

"If they were, we'd be back in our original lives where things weren't complicated with time travel and bonds and things," I tell him calmly. I lean over – I'm not buckled in yet, so it's doable – and turn in my seat to reach out and grasp both of his hands. I look him dead in the eye, and for a moment, Kurt is bewitched by my gaze, his own unwavering, as if he's a raccoon caught in the headlights; masked, emotionally mysterious, unafraid, wondering, prepared, captivated. I tell Kurt with as much strength in my voice as I'm capable of without sounding threatening, "But I would rather have this be this messy, this intricate, this screwed up and confusing than have things back to the way they were. So you're torn? That's fine. Whatever. I can deal with that; he's your friend, anyway, and I know how you feel about me. Because of that, I don't care what happens to us or between us, as long as your feelings for me don't change, unless they change just so they grow."

His eyes are watering, turning from grey-blue in the dusky sunlight to molten green. "Dave…" he whispers, and I watch as he shakes his head, removes one hand to dab at his eyes, sniffling lightly, all because he isn't sure how to respond. I don't need him to; I just need him to know that I'm spilling my guts and holding my heart out because I trust him, and love him, and am not afraid in this confined space to tell him nothing but the soulful truth about what I think.

He unbuckles himself and leans over in one fluid motion. He sinks against me, and I hastily reach down and move the armrest back so that I can hold him better without the damn thing digging into my ribs. Kurt clambers over, straddling my lap, careful not to let his ass hit the horn on the steering wheel.

He bends down, kissing my face, murmuring things to me.

"You're so different when you're alone with me, aren't you?" he says around kisses, soft and damp and warm, being pressed to my forehead, my temple, my nose, my eyelids, eyebrows, cheekbones, and finally, my mouth, this last one taking the longest. He kisses me slowly, devastatingly slowly, without tongue or sexual passion; only with tender, vulnerable, and dismaying emotions.

Cold, sinking fear drips down into my stomach as he releases my lips, the pair sticking together for a moment, making that smooching noise, as he pulls away enough to look me in the eye.

"Kurt… is something wrong?" I say in a panic, because as loving and sweet as this moment is, I sense something behind it.

Kurt looks like he's going to cry again. "I wanted to be happy today," he babbles, "Because you reminded me on the car ride here how Carole is going to get sick when you finally meet her, and I have yet to know if she turns out all right. And… and I know that you're going to jump again. It always happens when we get together, doesn't it, from what you've told me? The universe likes keeping us apart until we fix every last thing between us in each timeline in order to get to the final one, or something like that. That's my theory, anyway," he continues to ramble hastily, tears freely trickling from the corners of his eyes at each blink, but his voice barely wavers, and his face looks serene otherwise. He goes on, quieter than before, "So I'm just… waiting. Waiting for the good moments to pass and the pain to come again. It always does for me. Always has, in different ways. But… I don't want it, David. I want to keep you and me like this, exactly like _this,_ for as long as I can, and hopefully forever."

It's amazing how life can do this to you: flip events around, swap moments, sifting back and forth in an ever-changing fluctuation between happy and sad, love and hate, tension and relief. Over and over again, all of the positive and negative emotions mixing and rolling together like cement in a mixing truck.

I comb back Kurt's hair with my hand, peering up into his eyes, absorbing the comfort of his arms around my shoulders, his thumbs stroking idly by my ears, his fingers playing a deft melody at the nape of my neck. I bring him closer with my hand until our foreheads touch. Closing my eyes, I say, "Remember what we promised? Don't back out on your word, Fancy. We said we'd stick together no matter what shit got hurled at us in the future. And know what? You are gonna hear me say those words again, because I'm not dying or in pain right now; I'm gonna tell you, right here, in this tiny little truck of yours in the parking lot of a goddamn _mall_ that I love you. I _am_ going to be here, and I'll be damned if we wind up enemies again, 'cause I don't think I could stomach it."

"David…" Kurt mumbles, tongue thick in his mouth as his eyes squeeze shut and tremble as soon as I open my eyes and pull back to glance at him. His hands get shaky around my neck, and he leans in and kisses me again, his mouth tasting distantly of water and salt. Tears. "I love you, too. I joke about it, but I-I really did fall in love with you. You're so good to me when you're like this, and I'm going to force myself to remember it if something like another jump happens again."

"You better," I say breathlessly as I grip him tightly and never want to let go. It's so strange; we're much older and more experienced in mind, but in body, we're still a couple of awkward teenagers, juniors, barely grown, not really, not yet, and somehow we're still capable of that fierce sort of love I thought only existed in movies and books.

But sometimes, you truly can love someone enough to die for them, change for them, and do anything to be with them. It's possible.

It's possible, because here I am. I'm proof.

And so is he.


	14. Chapter 14

_I asked my parents if Kurt could spend the night that weekend,_

_The weekend after we went to the mall together._

_They know I'm dating him,_

_And they were skeptical,_

_But as long as I promised to keep my door open_

_And my music low enough to prevent masking any sounds that could be suspicious,_

_They agreed to it._

_So, tonight, I have Kurt in my arms,_

_His body folded against mine,_

_My arm around his torso and his forearm over mine,_

_Our bodies pressed comfortably together,_

_One of our arms under the pillow,_

_Our fingers laced,_

_Our knees bent,_

_My lips on the back of his neck,_

_His soul never closer to mine;_

_Until now._

_I'm drowsy and nearly there,_

_Nearly asleep,_

_When Kurt jerks in my grasp,_

_Startled awake,_

_And gasps fearfully,_

"Dave!"

I shake myself into full awareness with a startled snort ripping from me. "Huh? What is it?"

"I just… I drifted off, and was dreaming, and you – you…" he sputters, unsure of himself, and wrenches out of our comfortable position to sit up in my bed and stare down at me, that Kurt Hummel fire in his eyes. "You are not allowed to come to Regionals."

"What? Why not? I'm in Glee Club like you, Fancy," I remind him with a frown.

He says sharply, poking me hard in the chest after each French word, " _Non. Laissé._ " He translates firmly, with two more pokes, "Not. Allowed."

"Why?" I dare to ask as I, too, sit up. I bring my knees up and use them as elbow rests.

Kurt looks frustrated and wounded. "Because… Because, just now, I dreamt that you died on the trip. Or at least got hurt. I don't know; all I saw were cement steps and you falling down them and then _bleeding_ in a puddle at the bottom. I could be overreacting, but… please, Dave. Say you won't go."

I shake my head. "Kurt, I _have_ to. Shuester is counting on me. All of Glee Club is, too. I actually want to go. And what's more, dreams are only dreams. Your fears are biting you in the ass, so stop worrying, okay? Now lie back down and cuddle with me. It's cold without you, angel." And I smirk a little, knowing how much he likes it when I call him 'angel,' even if the nickname is cliché. But hey, he looks angelic sometimes; all pale, creamy-skinned and glowing from the moisturizer he uses on himself. So he doesn't mind.

Kurt lies back down, curls into me while facing me this time, his nose pressed against my chest, his legs wrapped up in mine, one of his arms behind my back and the other beneath his own head. He inhales through his nose, exhales through his mouth, and presses closer.

"I might be overreacting, you're right. I just… don't want anything to happen yet. It scares me just thinking about it. Everything is perfect, so why would things change again?" He pauses, contemplating, and I'm about to answer him when he murmurs, "I really like your smell, by the way. I know that sounds creepy, but you smell… Like Dave. I'm not sure how else to describe it, except for maybe 'woodsy' and 'clean.' Kinda sweet, smoky, musky. I like it."

I huff a laugh and start fiddling with his hair. "You're over-tired, Hummel. Just sleep now, okay? And we can talk about creepy-sappy-romance things another time. Like how I love your smell, too, and how your hair feels when it's not slathered in product."

"Mmm," he hums in agreement, yawning with hot breath against the fabric of my shirt. "'Kay."

He's so adorable when he isn't being a bitchy diva. And, for the most part, he only drops his guard when he's with me. And it's coincidentally ironic, since I also lower my defenses when I'm with him. Fitting, I guess.

Kurt's asleep soon, and sleep is about to whisk me away again. But before it does, I make sure to plant a drowsy kiss in my lover's hair.

I might be waiting for the axe to fall (like it always does), but for right now I'm content and thinking that since things are looking up, maybe the storm truly _has_ passed.

.o0o.

Regionals arrive. Kurt sits beside me on the bus ride there, and the boy is practically vibrating in his seat. He bouncing lightly up and down, excited, nervous, scared. Excited to sing with New Directions again and go up against Aural Intensity and the Warblers he left behind; nervous about the long solo he was granted, his first ever in front of an audience like this; and scared, because he still thinks I'm going to tumble down a flight of stairs.

What, does he think, in a jealous rage, that Blaine is going to shove me down a set of stairs? That's just ridiculous. I mean, I dislike Blaine, but he's not a bad guy. Although I wouldn't doubt him being jealous. Still, Kurt's told me a few things, like how Blaine sang to this older guy Jeremiah at the Gap, and how Blaine seems to only ever want to be friends anyway (and how, in the first timeline, Blaine kissed Rachel and went on a date with her). So unless Blaine is really bad at expressing how he feels for the people he really cares about, he should be fine, because he seems like he's okay with Kurt being with someone.

I dunno. Whatever. I think too much over these things sometimes. (Maybe _I'm_ the jealous one? I thought he was feeling the competition before when I went to Dalton and apologized, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe _I_ feel competition, even though my head is telling me that I have nothing to worry about since Kurt loves me.) Uhg. I really need to shut up my brain.

Sighing, I get off of the bus and let Kurt wrap his arms around my arm, his fingers digging into my letterman's faux leather as he worries his bottom lip.

"Kurt, chillax, would you? This is supposed to be fun, but you look like you're waiting for a ghost to pop out of nowhere or something," I tell him with a laugh, trying to get him to smile.

He takes one look at me, and it works. My smile is contagious. His face breaks out into a small grin, part of his teeth showing, and he shakes his head and loosens his grip on my arm enough so that I don't feel like there's a tourniquet on it. "Yeah, you're right. Sorry. I'm just so happy and fearful that my body doesn't know what to do. I keep trembling."

"Yeah, I can feel that much," I say with a roll of my eyes.

A trio marches ahead of us, Brittany on one of Santana's arms, and Sam on the other. Huh. Guess Lopez has a thing for blondes of both genders.

Meanwhile, Finn and Rachel are talking, Quinn is arguing with Puck while Puck lingers near Lauren, and Artie is wheeling himself alongside his girlfriend, but isn't quite part of the trio since he can't lock arms with them. Mike, his arm around Tina, pace alongside Mercedes to catch up with Rachel and steal her attention. Finn shrugs as the brunet leaves his side, smiles awkwardly, and migrates toward Puck.

Everybody is half-dancing as they walk, half-singing as they talk, because we _are_ a Glee Club and everything is musical and friendly and nothing hurts. Or something along those lines, I guess. It's just a phrase I picked up online. "Everything is (…) and nothing hurts."

It's a funny phrase in my opinion, and Kurt must be thinking the same thing, because he jokingly points out the Warblers entering the building ahead of us in the distance, and says, "Look: everything is gay Hogwarts and nothing hurts."

I laugh, loving how in sync he and I are without always realizing it, and I vaguely think how I was stupid the first time I lived my high school life for not pursuing Kurt Hummel. He and I work together in an odd way that only suits us. And there is just too much emotion and chemistry between us to not be logical. I mean, come _on._ – But then again, my opinion is horribly biased; I'm in love with him, so naturally I think we're perfect together, even though I know we're not. No one is, but he suffered because of me, I suffered because of him, and we fight sometimes since he's a stubborn diva and I'm a stubborn hamhock.

"All right, guys! We're assigned to green room number seven. Let's sign in, get our stuff together, and retreat to our room. We're meant to go in the middle of the competition," Shuester instructs us as we enter the massive concert hall building.

Coach Sylvester walks back, Aural Intensity in tow, and sends a smirk our way. "Oh, heya William. Having fun with the chaotic, no-talent group you have with you? I can see you have a couple recruits that have upped your numbers since I last saw you; Porcelain, Meathead. How awful to see you both under these competitive circumstances. But I suppose it's all in good, nasally-voiced, spastic-dancing fun, right?"

Kurt's face tightens slightly as he replies, "Definitely, Miss Sylvester. All in good fun. But you know, it won't be as fun when –"

"When we kick your scrawny asses!" Mercedes pipes up with a sassy smirk, and Puck leans his arm onto her shoulder.

"Damn straight. We have an _epic_ set-list prepared, so all you fools are going _down."_

One of the girls in oral Intensity flips her hair. "Psh, I doubt that! Ya'll don't know what we have planned, okay? Coach here is real skilled with making up 'epic' songs for us, and our routines are _off da hook._ So you can just shut up and take it, 'cause we're bringing the _heat._ "

"Because I like to raise my gleeks the way I raise my champion Cheerios: with take-no-mercy style, grace, flawless choreography, and only the best of tastes in teenybopper pop culture music," Sue recites confidently, her hands on her hips. She smirks, walks past in a march, and ruffles Shue's hair just to piss him off as she leaves the scene.

"Don't let her attempts at intimidation get to you, guys," Shue says with a roll of his eyes as he pivots and faces the group. He smiles at us, tugs down his vest, and reminds, "Because we had Holly Holiday help us with the mash-up again, and she's going to be coming here to support us. Bieste, too. We have plenty of moral support from Lima, and nothing anyone else around here is going to take that away from us. Plus, all of you have more talent than I can even muster up the strength to handle. So knock 'em dead!"

We let out a cheer, chuckling to ourselves as we move our group to the green room.

I'm anxious. Joyous, too, but mostly anxious. I've never sung in front of a crowd. Even for "Thriller/Heads Will Roll," I merely danced. When we did that rehearsal with "She's Not There," I sang quietly in the background of Finn's voice. But I actually have a few lines to perform, and even though I did Regionals once before with the Glee Club, it's not the same this time around. I don't know if that's because Kurt is here or _what,_ but I can feel it. It's there.

…And now the Black-Eyed Peas' old single, "Anxiety," is stuck in my head. Tch.

.o0o.

Things wind up going quite smoothly, however. I was a little shocked at how smoothly things were going, actually; it almost felt wrong with how right it all was.

But now I figure it's just how things are meant to be. Kurt nailed his solo; I don't think I've ever heard him sing that well, and he sings well normally, so it was amazing to behold. Quinn did a killer number with Santana on backup vocals, and Rachel brought it home. All of the songs were different than our usual, but we concluded it with a huge rendition of Rent's "Seasons of Love," a classic choir and show choir song. Artie and I got to harmoniously sing Collins' bit, which has secretly always been my favorite part.

Overall, it was amazing. So fun, so rewarding, so tiring, but so very _worth it._

And then the kicker. The turmoil I was waiting for, that Kurt predicted, that I didn't want to succumb to as my fate; the event I denied would happen, but knew ultimately would occur:

I time-hopped.

And all because, not for a flight of stairs like Kurt dreamed up, but because Artie's wheelchair got stuck on the road in a deep crack, a pothole of sorts, and was nearly rammed into by a car.

The kid already lost his mother and the use of his legs because of a car accident; how could I let him lose something greater, like his life?

So I charged back across the street, wrenched his chair free, and sent him wheeling over toward everyone else just as a car swerved – ironically trying to avoid hitting me – and collided with my body.

I felt a tire run over my foot; I felt the crunch of bone as my shin broke under the impact of the front bumper; I felt my chest heave as it fell atop the hood, and my body convulse as I fell to the ground, the car whirling around and in front of me, my head slamming with enough force to make me bleed (and possibly fracture my skull) as it meshed with the pavement.

Cars came to a screeching halt. I heard Kurt scream, ear-splittingly loud, and babble incoherently with body-shuddering sobs as he came racing to my side. I couldn't see a thing. All I felt was pain, all I heard were sirens, and all I wanted was for this to stop happening to me.

It's too similar, too, to how I got to this specific timeline: via ambulance after getting struck too hard during football. But I'm pretty sure I hadn't died then, come to think of it. But right now? I don't know. I feel like I'm truly dying.

I tried to choke out the word, "Kurt," but no sounds came.

And then the blackness strangled me alive for the hundredth time.

I wanted to shoot something out of sheer spite.

.o0o.

And here I am, stirring awake again, and my body feels bedsore and my lungs ache and my back feels funny. I groan, stiffen, yawn; all while attempting to open my eyes.

When I finally do, all I see is white.

Blaringly bright white that slowly adjusts to a still-bright-but-not-head-achingly-so shade, and I blink warily.

_Did I somehow survive saving Artie?_

_Am I still in the same timeline?_

_How long have I been out?_

Thoughts race through my head, each one lasting no longer than a shooting star across the night sky. I shake my head, raise a hand to grip it, and find an IV and many, many other tubes in my skin, one even in a rather uncomfortable place most likely due to the fact that I couldn't get up and use the restroom until now.

I glance around at the hospital surroundings. There's a body in a chair beside me, but I can't see their face, and a letterman jacket covers their frame. Is it one of my friends? Azimio, Finn, Puck? But no, this person is too small in that chair to be Az, and not buff enough to be Puck.

A nurse comes in, and she takes one look at me before letting out a soft yelp of surprise. A smile takes over her facial features and she rushes over to me. "You… you're awake! Oh my God, it's a miracle! I just… hold on, okay? I need to go get the doctor. Ooh, this is so exciting!"

I tilt my head at her, confused. My muscles feel weak and rubbery, and my head is groggy. Just what does she mean, 'it's a miracle?'

Panic bubbles up in my chest from my gut, icy and lung-deflating as it speeds up my heart rate on the monitor beside me.

A doctor comes in, checks everything about me, and I notice with some disgust how thin I am, sickly so, and without toned skin or muscle. And how pale; what, have I been out of the sun for a hundred years like a fuckin' vampire?

"Do you know your name?" the doctor asks, moving on from my vitals to my memory.

"Uh, duh. I'm David Isaac Karofsky."

"What year do you think it is?" he asks, going down a list of questions on his clipboard, pen in hand.

I glance at the person still asleep on the guest chair beside me. I swallow thickly. "I dunno…" I glance out the window. It's summertime, bright and colorful and sunny. "Twenty-eleven?" I reply. 2011 is the last thing I can remember, can think of. But time is so relative to me these days. How did my mom even deal with nine friggin' jumps? I can barely handle the ones I've done, and this is only… um. What, my fourth one? I think? I've lost count. It just feels like I should start marking my calendars around the times when I get with Kurt, because once I do, there's still another problem to be solved elsewhere that I need to jump to or something. Fuckin' hell.

"Huh?" I ask, too lost in my thoughts to recall what the doctor just said to me. "Sorry, didn't catch that."

He sighs sadly. "I said… it's actually the summer of 2012. You would have just graduated high school had you not been in a coma for the past year and a half."

I freeze up instantly. "Say what?" I whisper, eyes wide and heart clenching painfully. I need to know how much I've lost. I need to know which timeline this is. "Uh… everything's a little fuzzy. C-can you, uh, remind me how I got here?"

"Gunshot wounds to your spine," the doctor states slowly, trying to be gentle with breaking the news to me. "For a while, your spinal fluid was leaking and poisoning your body, so your body reacted accordingly, doing all it knew how: shutting down and rebooting, like a computer, in order to fix the problem. And, according to my charts, it looks like that did the trick. You're healthy now, in a matter of speaking. Healed up, if not a little malnutritioned. But that's nothing a month's worth of easing into solid foods rich in vitamins and minerals won't fix."

My mouth falls into a little 'o' shape. Gunshot. So this isn't the timeline I left. Of course not. This is not that bad of a timeline, though… I mean, yeah, there are some thugs who shot me, but if I've been out of their hair for over a year, they should have forgotten me and won't mess with me again. And besides, Kurt and I aren't enemies here. Not as close as we were in that blissful time I left, but we're at least not enemies.

In fact, that reminds me: "Who's this?" I say, gesturing to the heavy sleeper in the chair near my cot.

The doctor smiles, and I can see the crow's feet in the corners of his eyes as he does so. "We called your parents and told them that you're awake, but I think he's been the one waiting for it more than anyone. Were you a close friend of his?"

I inch over to lean far enough to try and see his face.

It's Kurt.

I grin broadly, my eyes going soft. Returning my gaze to the medical man, I answer, "Yeah, real close, in a matter of speaking. Could you wake him up for me?"

"After a few more questions, I will. Sorry, I got off-track. I need to make sure nothing was damaged."

I nod at him. "Right, yeah. That makes sense. Carry on, Doc."

He nods curtly, then goes down the list asking things like my parents' names, my school, my friends; basic stuff. It's not that difficult for me, considering. And then, finally, he's finished asking things and tucks his clipboard away before stepping over to where Kurt is slumped, head on his knees, snoring lightly.

The doctor shakes Kurt's shoulder and the letterman – mine or Finn's, I assume – slips off his shoulder enough to reveal a surprisingly unfashionable outfit; it's instead very simple: a baggy black t-shirt that has small green letters at the nape of his neck that read, 'Wicked.'

"Mr. Hummel? Hey, there's someone you should see. Come on, son; I know you spend most nights watching him, but he's awake, now, and he wants to see you."

"What?" Kurt snorts, jerking awake from his exhausted sleep, eyes frantically searching the room until they land on my face. " _Dave!_ "

The doctor can see that he needs to give us a moment. I'm more than thankful when he leaves.

Kurt's up and out of his chair with his arms around my neck within seconds. I blink, startled, but soon melt under the warmth of his chest brushing mine, and his arms locked around me. It's exactly what I need after having jumped again.

"Hey, Fancy. Miss me or something?" I say, trying to make light of the situation.

Kurt reels backward and I spy tears in his eyes. Then, all too swiftly and sharply, there's a clapping noise that reaches my ears first before the sting of a slap tingles across my left cheek.

"Don't you ever do that to me again! I thought you were dead, and thought you'd never wake up, and now you're suddenly here? This is just…! I can't. I just can't," he whispers, voice dropping from a yell. He crumbles slowly, his face falling into one of relief and misery at the same time. He frowns, leans in again, and kisses my cheek. Against my skin, he murmurs, "You don't know how many times I've done this while you were unconscious. I was so afraid for you, Dave. Do you have any idea what this past year has been like for me? I've visited you damn near every day after school, unless something else came up. I've stayed weekends here. I've never left your side, because I wanted to be here in case you woke up. I even came on Christmas, with my dad and Finn. The whole school has sent you cards to read when you came-to… If you ever came-to," Kurt blubbers, rambling again, his face tucked against my shoulder and both his hands fisting the starchy fabric of my hospital gown.

"Kurt… shh, shh, it's okay. I'm okay. I lived, and I'm conscious now, and it's _o-kay,"_ I tell him, going as far as to rub his back in circles and sound out that final word into two syllables.

He shakes his head against me, clinging tighter if possible. "You just don't get it, do you, you big lummox? It's not okay. It's not, because this happened because of _me._ If you never knew me, no one would have found out what you were, since you wouldn't have had a crush on me, and then no one would have come after you! They were caught, you know; the guys who shot at you. But that doesn't make it right, or fair, or any less my fault."

I push him up and force him to look me in the eyes. "How does this get to be _your_ fault? That's bullshit and you know it. Now stop talking, stop blaming yourself, and tell me something normal, something I missed."

He huffs like he disagrees, but nods once. "Fine. Um… I went with Rachel and Mercedes to prom this year. Blaine came along as a guest, and he was with this blond guy who apparently waited to date Blaine until Blaine turned eighteen. And Finn and Rachel both have promise rings; they went through some problems, but they realized how flawless they are together and whatnot and decided they might get married one day. And Quinn got accepted into a college out in California. …So did I." He glances downward. "But I don't think I'll go. You're here, after all, and you have to finish high school."

_Ew._ I do not want more high school. I'm getting really tired of that place, and especially tired of its drama, and I'll be even more tired and closer to a burnout without Kurt and everyone else I know in attendance with me.

Kurt reads my thoughts as I grimace outwardly at the notion. He smiles a little. "Hey, don't worry, babe. I'll wait for you. I'll work for a while, save my money, and go to college with you. I already talked to my dad about this, back when I was worried when you'd wake up. He agreed to it. He realizes that you mean a lot to me."

Why, though? How did I earn this Kurt's love, or at least admire to the point where I mean anything to him? The other Kurts I have all figured out, but this one? We were only on the brink of trying dating before I wound up here and all the time in this timeline passed. I haven't done much. I was barely even his friend in this timeline.

And if this is one of those, "distance makes the heart grow fonder" scenarios, the sort where he fell in love with me simply because I was ill and not entirely 'here,' then that's just fucked up. I don't want a love like that. I want him to love me because I did something right, and not from doing nothing at all.

So I have to ask, "Why me? I've never been… the best to you, Kurt," I remind him.

"I know. But before you got shot, you got better. Toward me, that is. And I can't overlook that. Besides, uh. There's just… this strong feeling I have, you know? I sense something. Call me cheesy or weird, but it's there. I feel like I need to at least try to be with you." He pauses. Softly, he ventures with a light smile, "Did you know that I had dreams about us? Almost every night while you were in a coma. I dreamt that we were friends in freshman year, even though we weren't. It gave me something to think about every time I came and saw your same emotionless, relaxed face lying in this bed."

…And once again, the universe spares me a small pain by granting at least that much.

But, hold the phone. He had dreams almost every night for about a year and a half? And… that's how long I was in that jump, the jump after my first time in this timeline. So… so…

"Ah!" I wince, hissing as I hold my head. It hurts, it hurts, _it hurts_! Thinking to hard about time and space and the possibility of the timelines being alongside one another, brushing but not touching… it makes me get a headache.

"David?" comes the doctor's voice again, suddenly. Kurt withdraws his hand – it had been reaching out for my face, to most likely help soothe the pain – and moves back to his seat. The doctor ushers in two people: my parents.

"David, sweetie!" my mom weeps, instantly breaking out into tears and rushing to my side. She clings to me, crying uncontrollably, and I spy over her shoulder how my dad smiles and greets Kurt like he knows him really, really well.

Which, come to think of it, he probably does in this timeline, considering Kurt's obvious feelings for me and the recurring visits he mentioned.

When my mom finally pulls away, smoothing my disgustingly dirty hair and touching my cheek, my dad steps forward. He rubs her shoulder with one hand and gestures to his heart with the other. "We're so glad you're all right, son. We were terrified that we were… going to lose you," he says, his voice running thin at the end. And all I can unfittingly think about is how much money they must have spent to keep me taken care of for over a year in this hospital.

I struggle to sit up properly, aside from the pillows and inclined bed keeping my upright. I fall forward, and Kurt and my mom are the first people there to catch me and right me again. I shift, waving them away, and remove a few tubes and things before shakily trying to stand.

"Baby, you shouldn't! Your body isn't used to that again, it's been too long without exercise!" my mother insists. "Your muscles will cramp, and –"

" _Please,_ Mom," I grumble, "Let me do this. Besides, I'm still a teenage boy, right? My body'll bounce back like a rubber band in no time."

"…Physical therapy would be better."

"Come on, how many comatose patients can just get up and walk after years? A few, actually. Or so I've heard. Just… let me try, okay?" I persist, and all three of them give me surrendering looks. I breathe out slowly, drum my fingers on the ledge of the cot, and then I make a move to lower my feet.

When they touch the cold tile floor, I suck in air sharply. I slide off the bed, my legs feeling shaky and my knees weak, but I somehow manage to stay upright even as I lurch forward once or twice. I stumble like a drunken man and make my way to the bathroom. Here, I take care of myself with my dad at the door the entire time, telling me sternly how I should be careful, and do I need him? Or any help? He could send Kurt in here –

Shaking my head, I shout back that everything is fine.

I bend over the sink and peer below my lashes at myself. "Your life is one big jigsaw puzzle, Dave," I utter gutturally, my voice rough. I slurp some water from my hand and splash it on my face a few more times, even after I've already soaped up and rinsed my hair in the sink, as well as wash-clothed my visible skin.

Sighing, I make my way back out into the main ward, my parents talking to Kurt mutely. When they see me, they rush over, and I really hate being babied like this.

"Stop fussing!" I snap at the trio, and they frown worriedly. Grinding my teeth idly, I retort grumpily, "I… have a lot on my plate right now. This is a lot to take in."

I'm eighteen again, but this time I'm a non-graduate and a former comatose patient and hate-crime victim? And yet Kurt still loves me in this twisted version of my life. Out of all of the timelines I know of – the freshman redo, the original, and the merge of the two I just left – this one is the worst. But… at least Kurt doesn't hate me again. This is the only good part about this sucky situation. And the most confusing thing is that I've been comatose for about the same amount of time as I was in the freshman redo timeline, which could mean something, or explain something (like my deaths?), but I'm not sure.

It's all so vague and mysterious and astounding and perplexing.

I sigh again, and turn out of my thoughts to address the people who care about me, the three who are watching as I lean against the railing on one side of the cot. Pushing myself up, I ask, "So… how should I go about this school-thing? I can't be a dropout because I went into a coma. I'll need at least a high school diploma to work even the most dead-end of jobs."

"I thought you might want me to home-school you, dear," my mom offers quietly. She sends me a hopeful, tiny smile. "I doubt you'll want to attend classes with younger kids, and deal with teachers who know your situation. And all without your old friends. That just wouldn't be right."

I nod. "Yeah, that works."

"I can help her tutor you," Kurt pipes up. "Since I'll be putting off college for a while."

I frown at this. I didn't like his plan when he said it earlier, but now it sounds extremely wrong. "No, Kurt. I can't let you do that. I literally will force you onto the plane to California for that school you were accepted to, because I won't sit idly by and let you fuck up your life because of me. Go this fall, get your education while I get mine, and have a life, okay? You deserve it. You've earned it. And, after being in some big cities with people who are out and better off than I am, come visit me and tell me if you're still interested. If you are, great. I'll be in college by then, or finish it up depending on my major, and we can be together. But if not, then please, do me a favor and go crazy, all right? Do what you want."

I won't hold him back. I know I promised him not days ago (in my mind, anyway) that I'd do everything I could for us to be together… but I have to face the facts: in this timeline, Kurt is better off without me. Even now, he looks too frail, too skinny, too tired. He wasted some good times this past year or so on waiting for me to wake up, I just know it. And that sort of misery I wouldn't put on my worst enemy, let alone the boy I love.

Kurt stares at me, his eyes welling with tears. "You… you can't mean that," he says tensely, his voice as tight as his wringing hands. He frowns, blinks the tears until they fall, and stands up straighter. He steps closer. "Don't tell me what I should or shouldn't do with my life! If I want to stay here, wait for you, help you along, then I will! Don't give me the, 'you're better off without me' speech, David Karofsky! You promised me!"

As soon as those last three words slip from his lips, he takes a half-step backward, anger draining from his face, and one hand coming up to clamp over his mouth. His eyes are wide, then return to normal as the bluish irises scan the floor, back and forth, back and forth.

Glancing back up (both of my parents sending the pair of us confused looks), Kurt locks his eyes with mine. "Why… did I just say that? Something… feels familiar… like something from a dream, but I can't remember." He shakes his head, gripping it with one hand. "I need some water. I'm getting a headache."

Guess I'm not the only one who suffers headaches when it comes to all these different timelines.

Kurt wanders into the bathroom, and even though he leaves the door open, he doesn't flick on the light, and I can't see more than a vague outline of him in the dimness. I hear water running, and while he gets a drink, I turn to my parents. "I'm really happy to see you guys, I am, and him, too, but… I need to rest. And eat something. And I think it'd spare all of us some stress if you take him and leave me to myself for a little while," I murmur, trying not to let Kurt hear me.

Slowly, my father nods his head in agreement. With that stern and commanding-without-being-cruel tone of his, my dad puts his arm around my mother's shoulder and starts to guide her away. "Come, honey. And Kurt? Can you hear me? We're going to leave, now, and I'm pretty sure your father wants you home. Let's spread the news about David's comeback, and give him time to find himself again. Today has been too overwhelming, and we all need to process things. Think about what to do now that the tragedy has passed."

Kurt emerges from the personal bathroom with his sleeve inching down from his chin, where he'd wiped his mouth seconds ago. A habit I'd think would be unlike him – ruining clothes with water – but I realize that he must have stopped caring; especially with the way he's dressed in that lounge attire.

"Right. Of course," he mutters, looking off to the side, not keeping eye contact with my family or me. He nods dumbly, picks up my jacket from the visitor's chair, and shoves it at me as he walks by. "This is yours. You parents lent it to me until you got better." And then, without another word, he exits the hospital ward with my parents just ahead of him.

And I'm left to myself like I had asked. I clutch the letterman to my chest; it smells like Kurt, and not like me at all.

I climb back onto the cot, curl up on one side with the letterman still in my arms, and attempt to fall asleep. Suddenly, I'm not that hungry any longer. Instead, I'm exhausted, emotionally drained, and aching.


	15. Chapter 15

_Kurt..._

_Food._

_Huh._

_Such... an odd combination of thoughts..._

_Over and over, picturing Kurt_

_Surrounded in food,_

_Holding it out to me,_

_Asking me if I want some,_

_And when I nod,_

_Putting it between his lips and saying that_

_I need to come get it from him._

_Huh._

_Now I have the urge_

_To kiss him_

_And then go get something to eat._

_What a weird..._

_Dream._

When I wake up, I'm ravenous. I have the nurse attending to me racing back and forth, back and forth, fetching me food. A girl in a Candy Striper uniform comes in, looking like some role-player in a porno, when suddenly I realize with a few blinks that it's Santana Lopez.

"Lopez?" I say, watching as she reaches behind me and fluffs my pillow before adding another to it, propping me up more.

"Hey, jockstrap," she remarks curtly, smirking lightly. "See you're finally awake. You have no idea the sort of response I got when I posted you're 'awakening' on my Facebook; everyone in our grade went, like, _ballistic._ I'd expect you'll have a few visitors coming here pretty soon. You were quite the pity case for most of junior and senior year. People would always ask about you to me since I volunteer here, but, like, how was I supposed to know? Why me? It's not like we were _friends_ ," she snorts, moving onto my blankets. But she's flashing me a smile, something oddly friendly for the honorary bitch. "But hey, people change, I guess. Ever since Brittany and I got together, you could say I've been a little more… pleasant."

"I knew you were in love with her but were too prideful to admit it," I retort smugly.

Santana rolls her eyes with evident irritation at my little quip. As she fixes up some flowers at my bedside table, tossing out the dead ones, Santana returns sassily, "Yeah, like you and half the Glee Club had this figured out. I didn't. I must've been in denial about it or something, like you and your gayness or whatever." She shrugs, stands up fully, and places her hands on her hips. With a toss of her head, she says carelessly, "Need anything?"

"More Jell-O, woman," I command with a smile, waving my empty dessert cup at her.

"Haven't you eaten enough? You're gonna make yourself sick. And I know what it's like to binge and purge; it ain't attractive _or_ fun," Santana reminds. She narrows her eyes at me. "If I were you, I'd slow down. I get that you're a big boy and want to eat plenty, but you haven't eaten solid foods in over a year; I'm no doctor, or even a nurse, _clearly,_ but I know stuff. Like how, after months 'n' months of getting nutrition from a tube in your arm, you need something light and small to get your digestive tract back to normal before you pig out on, like, a burger."

"You don't need to lecture me, Lopez; I know what my body can handle, post-comatose or not."

"…Fine. But when you throw up later – because you _will_ be hurling, Karofsky – I want you to picture my voice in your head saying, 'I told you so!'" she says with a swish of her hips as she tosses out my Jell-O cup and leaves, presumably, to get me some more.

Three-quarters of an hour later, I'm praying to the porcelain gods, on my knees, my head half inside the toilet bowl.

Dammit. I hate Lopez for being right. And after getting utterly wasted that one time, I am not very happy going back to vomiting.

My food, not surprisingly, doesn't look very digested. Partially because of the time, but partially because of the lack of regulation. Why did she have to be right? Now I gotta eat small stuff and work my way back to "normal" food when all I want to do is get my body back the way it was. I feel even uglier than usual with the way I am right now.

Wiping my mouth after a thorough rinsing, I stumble back into the room. I peer out the window at the cars in the parking lot and the busy street just beyond the hospital grounds. It's nice outside, and I'm pasty. I want to be out there.

"When can I go home?" I ask the next person who walks in. It's a nurse, my main attendant.

"Oh, doll. You probably can't until at least a week. We need to make sure everything is all right in both your body and your brain," she says with a tart smile. She looks at me like she pities me. I hate that feeling. Her cell phone goes off, and she checks a text. "Oh! Receptionist says there's someone here to see you. Should I send them in?"

"Yeah, I guess," I shrug, sighing. I don't like being here. I feel like I'm imprisoned in a white box. It sucks.

"Okay, doll. I'll go send them up. Wait in your bed, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. Sure."

She walks off, and when my door opens again as I'm climbing into the high bed, I find Finn Hudson-Hummel looking at me oddly.

"So… it's real. I mean, true. You're not the sleeping dead anymore, huh?" Finn remarks with a lopsided grin. "That's great. Kurt was beginning to worry me."

"So you're here because of Kurt?" Typical. But I like that he cares about his step-brother, because if he didn't… I might have to kick his ass. "You wound me, Hudson," I snort sarcastically, reaching over to take a sip of water at my bedside.

"Well, yeah. I mean, we weren't really friends. But… Kurt really cares about you, and I came to talk some sense into you, even if you're recovering and stuff." He frowns in that conflicted way he does and comes over to sit near me on a chair. "Look, Karofsky: Kurt is a lot of things, and one of those things is being a dedicated guy. You weren't here, obviously, but he's sacrificed a lot for you. And he told me what you said to him yesterday about having him leave and live his life and stuff. Dude, as sweet as that is, he's really pissed at you for saying that. It hurt him. He feels like you gave up before you tried."

But I did try. I keep trying. I try over and over again, but this keeps happening: I keep jumping, going around and around in circles, and for what? A happy ending? It doesn't feel all that happy to me right now.

I want Kurt, I do, he's _the sole thing_ I want in life at this point, but… I also realize that I'm being extremely selfish. It was easy to say how I'd do anything to keep him when he was there, and in love with me, and ready to hear it. Except here, now? In _this_ timeline?

No.

I just… can't promise the impossible. I have to understand that he's meant for greater things than what I can offer, and that I'd be stupid and only hurting him further (but in a different way) if I let him love me as much here as he did from where I recently came from, all the while restricting him from his dreams and goals that are so much bigger than what I'm capable of.

Kurt deserves fame, and fortune, and a happy life as any of the professions he mentioned before. And he brought up California _twice?_ This means something. Something I can't ignore.

"Your step-brother can get as pissed at me as he wants. I know that he's meant for greatness, Finn, and I know that being with me would only limit him," I explain softly, trying not to let this argument get heated. The last thing I need is Hudson on my ass. Puckerman's a fighter, too, and Finn's best friend (still?), which means if I get Finn mad at me, Puck won't be far behind, and there's no way in Hell am I going to face either or both of them. I might have kicked the asses of those older assholes during the freshman redo, but I don't want to hurt people who have actually been cool with me in (my? The?) past.

Finn scowls and stands abruptly. "Dammit, Karofsky! Look, I might not always be able to put two and two together, but even _I_ can tell that Kurt's in love with you! I mean, why else would he go through all this trouble to visit you all the time when you were sick, and make sure he was the first one here when you woke up? You're being an idiot! I swear, if you don't come to your senses, I'm going to slap them into you, because Kurt deserves the romance he's been denied all this time, okay? He's my brother, and I'm going to make sure only the best happens for him. And while I might not agree with it being _you,_ I do know that he wants you, so just shut the Hell up and apologize to him the next time he shows up; are we _clear_?"

His fists are clenched at his sides, and for once, his puppy-dog-cute face is actually rottweiler-fierce. Well, fuck me. I knew he could get angry, but not like this. Color me intimidated.

"O-… Okay, Finn. _God_. I'm sorry, all right? I don't know what I was thinking. I… make mistakes," I mutter, trying to close my gaping mouth as well as somehow sound strong. But the dude's scary when he wants to be. For a second there, I thought he might tackle me off my bed and punch me in the face.

"Good. You better, Karofsky. Because if you break my step-bro's heart, I swear, recovering dude or not, I _will not_ think twice about throwing a punch," Finn says pointedly, his voice trembling in the way it does when he's intense about something. Then he spins on his heel and storms out of the ward.

I exhale, not at all realizing I had been holding my breath.

As he brushes past a nurse, she steps aside with a small look of surprise on her face before entering. "Feeling all right?" she asks. "Need anything?"

I nod numbly. All I can think about is Kurt, now, and how much I must have hurt him by being stupid yet again. Finn's right, I am being an idiot; Kurt deserves good things, and that _includes_ romance. And I think my heart knew that all along, and my head was only getting in the way.

Regret sinking into my stomach, I swallow hard and croak, "Yeah… Could you find me a phone? There's a, uh, call I need to make."

She nods sweetly and ducks around my IV stand to an end table. She picks up the receiver of a phone with a long cord (they still have those? Where are the cordless phones?) and stretches it over to me. It makes the distance easily, curls slack in the center. "What's the number?"

I tell it to her slowly, and she plucks away on the dial pads. Then the ringing is sharp in my ear, and I can only pray that Kurt still has the same cell phone number, since I'm sure I don't know his home phone number, and he might even be in a different house than the original Hummel abode anyway.

I lick my parched lips when a voice answers. "Hello?"

"…Kurt?" I mutter, voice thick with emotion, and I hate my vocal cords for betraying me this way. And I hate Finn for bringing it on.

"Yes, this is he. Who is this? I don't recognize this number," he states bluntly. "But at least you're not one of those numbers asking for my mother. I hate reminding people that she's _dead_. I know I sound girly, but that's no excuse."

I chuckle a little. I needed his dry humor. "It's me, Dave." I clear my throat when he pauses. "Um… Look, I wanted to apologize – I mean, I shouldn't dictate your life one way or another. Which means I don't want to hold you back, but I don't want to tell you to do anything you don't want to. So… I'm sorry."

I wait with bated breath, my teeth worrying a small hole in my tender bottom lip. The silence kills me. I hate silence over the phone.

After what seems like an eternity, Kurt responds. "I'm driving to the hospital. I can't have this conversation with you over the phone."

"…Oh. Okay," I murmur. "Sure, yeah. That works. That's fine." It isn't. "I'll see you soon, then?"

"I was already driving around doing errands, so I should be there in minutes," he answers smoothly, coolly. His tone is guarded. How badly did I hurt him by saying what I did? I didn't think it was that bad…

"Kurt," I say, right when I know he's about to hang up.

"What?" he says tightly.

I brace myself. _Be bold, Dave,_ I tell myself. Assure this Kurt what the other one you left already knows. He needs to be reminded. He needs to know that I'm serious, and that I fucked up but that I'm really sorry about it. He remembered the promise, right? If only vaguely, and not specifically, and simply in a spontaneous manner? But he still _recalled,_ like déjà vu or something.

My heart drums in my chest. "…I love you."

There's a startled squeaking noise, and then dead silence. The call ends, the dead tone of the phone chiming in my ear. I shake my head and hold out the phone to the nurse, who's wearing a teary expression.

"Here, take it. I'm done with it," I mumble, and she nods and sets the phone down. Then the nurse returns to my bedside, sitting on the edge.

"Honey, I know it's not my place, but I've been here for a long while. I've worked at this hospital in dreary Lima, Ohio for about twenty-five years. I'm practically married to this place. And I've seen a lot of things; comatose patients like yourself; wounded and sickly people of all ages; death, birth, you name it. And one thing that gets me the most is not the patients, but the people who visit and care about them. Did you know that those lost to a coma rarely get regulars? It's true. Not even family visits very often, because it hurts too much to see the near-dead in front of them of someone they knew had such life before. And other sickly patients don't get visitors at all because they weren't very nice people, or they simply don't have anyone nearby or anyone left alive to see them.

"But you… I saw that boy Kurt come here so often we started asking him to do favors for us, sort of like a Candy Striper, but without the uniform or formalities. He truly cared about you. You're both so young and have your lives ahead of you; don't throw it away or try to rid him of you because you think you're not good enough. Now, I don't normally approve of gays, I must admit, but after seeing him say after day, holding your limp hand and kissing or touching your face, or crying over you… the notion grew on me. Touched my heart. If love like that can exist, I don't think gender or sickness or self-loathing should get in the way."

She shakes her head at me scornfully. She smiles soon afterward and pats my blanket-covered knee.

"Sorry, hon. I overhear too much. I'm just nosy. But I hope you take my advice," she informs me kindly. She stands and moves toward the door. In the doorway, she glances back at me and smiles. "I hear him running down the hall. Those boots he likes to wear are so obvious." And the middle-aged woman laughs.

Sure enough, seconds later, Kurt is dashing into the room, breathless, flushed, and dressed like his usual self again; silken, 'I (heart) NYC' scarf/ascot around his neck, hair perfectly combed, skin-tight black and red checkered jeans to match the red, black, and white shirt that coordinates with his scarfy-thing. The shirt is short-sleeved, V-neck styled, and had buttons going down one side. His boots are Doc Martins, laced-up, large-tongued, and a sleek black.

He stalks over to my bedside and brings his hands down onto the top of the railing still put up on one side. He has this indescribable look on his face that's a mixture of about five different flickering emotions. His eyes are a bright green-blue with unshed tears.

"That better not be a lie, Karofsky!" he says vehemently at first, but his voice breaks at the '-sky' half of my last name. He's shaking almost undetectably as he leans in. "Tell me it's not a lie." And he doesn't sound half as desperate as his eyes appear in their aquamarine depths; he actually sounds incredibly determined, and it makes a shiver run though me.

I cup his face in my hands and lift myself off of the propped pillows. We're barely two inches apart. "Kurt, I meant it. I know it seems sudden, but believe me when I tell you that it's not a lie. I was being stupid before, thinking I should change something, since every time I strive for something else, it fails. But not this time. Never again."

He doesn't fully comprehend what I'm saying – I don't blame him; he wouldn't understand what he hasn't been through – but he nods nonetheless, his hands coming up to grip my fingers. Kurt pries my hands from his face and grips them tightly. "Prove it."

In an instant, I'm dragged back to that moment from the previous jump.

_"You saying you love me back, Neanderthal?"_

_"Yeah. Yeah, that's exactly what I'm sayin' to you."_

_"Then kiss me, idiot. I need you to prove it."_

I use his hands in mine to bring him close, and he leans up on his toes to reach over the railing on the side of the cot. I bring our lips together carefully, timidly.

As Kurt pulls away, he looks relieved, all confusion and pain erased from his face. He smiles placidly, but it's an easy smile. "Guess you didn't break your promise after all."

I play dumb to test what he knows. "What promise?"

His jaw tightens and he looks disappointed. "We haven't made many promises to each other, Dave, Hell, I don't think we're really made any at all. So if you can't remember the one we made… did I dream it up?"

"You must have," I agree softly. He must have. I don't think this is the other jump that the Kurt I left would have made. At least not here, now. This is the dreaming Kurt; this Kurt from the initial jump is the one that is different than the others. He's clued in by what he dreams.

"Oh."

I nod vaguely, glancing away. The moment stretches and becomes a little awkward until Kurt murmurs, "Would it be weird if I climbed in bed with you?"

I instantly send him a look. He looks sheepish but flirtatious, and eager for a response.

I grin on one side. "Nah, I don't think it'd be too weird. 'S not like you're planning anything dirty. You just want to be closer to me, right? To the conscious-me."

"Yes," Kurt answers quietly, and walks to the foot of the hospital cot and clambers up onto it, mindful of my legs as I scoot over, giving him room on the side without the annoying bedrail. He lies beside me casually, head propped up on the pillows as he faces me on his side.

He reaches out for my hand, and I take it, lacing our fingers together and generally playing with his hand. From an intense to a comforting moment within seconds. I'm not complaining.

"Do you at all remember what it was like to be comatose? Did you ever hear me talking to you?"

I ponder this, sifting through my memories to see if I do know anything.

A dream rises to the surface. I had it a couple months ago (so to speak), but I thought, at the time, that a dream was all it was. But I should know better; after what my parents told me, and after noticing the trend with Kurt's dreams… I should've thought more about it.

Thing is, I recall one or two things: being lost in this sea of black and grey, misty and unclear, drowsy-feeling, like those twilit moments between being awake and asleep. And then there was Kurt's voice, rattling off nonsensical, unimportant things, jumping topics, rambling about school, friends, relationships, religion, life, love. But nothing ever about me; he simply talked to me, but I couldn't see him, couldn't feel him. His voice was just there, floating in my head.

Huh. So those were coma-dreams? I didn't even make the connection or think about it or remember it until now.

"Yeah, I heard you talking to me," I answer at length, nodding lightly. "I don't remember what you said, but I remember your voice calling to me. It's weird. I can't explain it."

He smiles minutely, his eyes closing as he snuggles into the pillow beneath him. He frowns a little, though, his nose wrinkling. "I hate this hospital smell. And all these beds and sheets are uncomfortable, unsanitary, and are going to wrinkle my clothes. But… I don't mind as much right now. I'm emotionally as worn out as a cartoon character zapped with electricity and turned into black, crumbly ash."

"'M sorry," I mumble, closing my eyes, too, and rolling over onto my side to face him. Our foreheads are close enough that I can feel the body heat radiating from his skin. "I always put you through too much. I'm such a dick."

"Yes, well. I can't say I'm not to blame for bothering to hang around you and bring the stress upon myself," he sighs, sounding serious, but I can hear the twinge of a smile in his voice. There's a pause between us, hands fiddling with the opposite one between us. I let my eyes flutter open, and I find him staring at me, his eyes searching my face, his plump, pink lips parted slightly.

"Hey, what're you lookin' at, Fancy?" I grin, trying to toss in some humor to our old relationship.

"You. There a problem with that, Neanderthal?" he mutters in reply, smirking a bit.

"Yeah, there is," I counter, leaning in, "Because why look when you can touch, right? I saw your eyes land on my mouth."

Kurt's face tints pink, and I take this as the signal that it's permissible to kiss him.

I shorten the remaining inches between our lips. I'm a breath away when Kurt can't wait any longer, and he pushes up into me, using his hand in mine to pull himself up. His lips squash firmly against mine, and he slowly works them to bring my bottom lip between the crevasse of both of his, then smoothes over my lips and flicks his tongue across the seam. I shiver, hand slipping out of his as I reach out and grip his face. My fingertips brush the velvet tab of his earlobe as I stretch out the kiss into a playful dance of tongues inside his mouth.

God, why was I being so stupid before? I can't live without this. I literally need him in my life each and every day. No wonder I slowly decayed without him at McKinley, and no wonder why I was so afraid of being gay for him; I knew that as soon as I dug that well, I would be trapped at the bottom of it, drowning in my feelings for him.

"Kurt," I slur around the meetings between our tongues and lips. I glide my hand down his flawless throat, feeling the pulse of his racing heart under my hand until I find it high time to move on to his chest. My hand travels across his ribcage to his side, and then a finger hooks into a belt loop on his hip. Kurt feels warm in my hands, and I don't even know how it works, us macking in a hospital cot, but it feels too good, too right, to stop.

"Yeah?" he pants, voice breathy and on the brink of being a moan.

"'M sorry," I repeat, hand tightening its grip on his hip. I bury my head against him, breaking our most recent kiss. He doesn't seem to mind; his hand, previous tied up in my curls, moves to my back in an act of consolation.

"Don't be. I understand. You were trying to protect me, and make sure that I was content and had choices in my life. But, David? I don't need you to be some selfless guy who only ends up hurting himself. I can take care of my life and make my own decisions. And I think that I'd be most content with whatever option has you in it," he relays with ease, muttering the words into my ear. He sounds absolutely sure of himself, firm and stubborn in his ideals.

Despite the tone, his words touch me. A burning sensation overtakes my eyes, and within seconds, I find myself shuddering a breath. The tears spill out, and I feel disgustingly vulnerable, always reduced to some blubbering baby whenever Kurt returns my feelings for him.

"I've fucked up a ton of times, Kurt, but I swear not this time. I don't want to leave again," I ramble, shaking my head and letting the tears flow as I cling to him, one of my knees slipping between his bent ones, the other resting on top.

"Dave…? Hey, are you okay? What are you talking about?" he says, voice wavering as panic reaches him.

"I'm going to do everything right. I'll heal this body, get out of this asylum, finish school with my mom, and go to college with you. Hell, I'll even move out of this state with you and get married if you want. I just want the pain to stop," I whisper, barely able to be heard, because some of these words I don't want to admit. I don't want to sound pathetic or desperate or vulnerable, since I hate all of these feelings and I hate having these things associated with me, since I'm Dave Karofsky, I'm the big, bad, (gay) jock-bully, and I'm not supposed to break down or show tenderness beneath my scales, I'm supposed to be the dragon, the monster, the tough guy.

I'm supposed to be a lot of things. But I'm not any of them, am I?

I'm gay and I enjoy singing and dancing (as well as sports, though), I'm a scared little boy who can't handle how extraordinarily unordinary I actually am, and I've hurt people and been hurt and have hated myself and the world, and I love more than I thought humanly possible.

Because Kurt understands me, my struggles, my hesitance and reluctance to accept all of these things about myself, and he got to see how funny and sweet I can be beyond my jagged exterior, and once he got past the torment I instilled on him and forgave me, let me redeem myself… And just for being who he was to begin with, a little stuck-up, a lot gorgeous, bold and brave to display his unmanly likes – fashion, music, and etcetera – and be witty and diligent and goal-oriented… I came to love him for everything he is and chooses to be.

I think of all this in an endless cycle as I finish crying and soon fall asleep in Kurt's arms. I don't know if he falls asleep, too, but when I wake up, I do know that he's gone.

Left behind is a note written on a napkin on my bedside table. It reads, _'Please keep your word and get out of here soon. With love (and I do mean "love," Dave), Kurt H.'_

Smiling brightly, I say aloud, "Can do, Kurt. Can do."

I plan on it. I want to keep my word on all those other things, too. They sounded stupid when I first said them, but maybe not as much now. I dunno about marriage – that much was a little far – but having a life together? I think I can manage that. If, granted, he wants to. But I think Kurt will. Why else would we both be going through all of this unless it meant we were supposed to be together for the rest of our lives?

It would only be a sadistically cruel and morbid twist of fate if Kurt and I were meant to be like Romeo and Juliet (although I'd say we're definitely already star-crossed lovers), doomed to love and die young.

…It would also be sadistically cruel, however, if we were instead doomed to love for a while and then break up violently later on after a short or long time together, it wouldn't matter, as long as we ended out relationship.

I don't know which would ache more. I think, at least as the Shakespearian characters, we'd still be in love, and I'd be okay with that. But the alternative… It makes me want to slap Fate and scream at it to not do that to us.

And now I'm just on a crazy monologue. I think I need some food that I hopefully won't throw back up this time. I need to clear my head and get it working properly before these thoughts escalate too far and I have another breakdown.


	16. Chapter 16

_Just a few more days,_

_I remind myself._

_Then I can be out of here._

_They said that my weight is almost right again,_

_My muscles have built up most of their strength_

_(Even if it can't match the football/hockey muscle definition_

_That I had before),_

_And that my digestive tract is nearly regulated,_

_Too._

_And I'm glad,_

_'Cause I fucking hate not being able_

_To eat whatever the hell I want._

I sigh, rolling over onto my side, trying to will myself to get up. I feel a little sluggish today, even if I'm technically a whole lot better.

Opening my eyes, I find someone smiling at me, leaning down and waving. "Hey, you! Finally awake?"

I bolt upright, startled, scrambling. "B-Berry? What the Hell?"

"Hey, Karofsky! I heard you were feeling better. – Well, at least, better enough to finally get to try my famous monkey bread. You like cinnamon, right? Kurt said that you did," the brunette is babbling with a grin on her face, holding up a tin. "Want some right now, for breakfast? Although it _is_ nearly noon… Brunch, then? I even brought you some tea. Kurt said that you wouldn't like tea, but I begged to differ. You seem like an Irish Breakfast or Earl Gray drinker to me."

"Oh my God, you crazy Jew," I say, bursting out with laughter. I mean the term affectionately, and she knows it. She makes a happy humming sound and sits on the edge of my bed (I finally convinced them to remove that stupid railing on one side). "What's this, all of a sudden?" I ask her as I take the tin. "Thanks, by the way. This smells great. I do love cinnamon."

She smiles, tilting her head. "He's right; you are nicer," she proclaims simply as she purses her lips and pressed a thoughtful finger to them. Shrugging, she hands me a travel mug that looks more like a sleek thermos than anything else. "Anyway, this is to wish you well and help get you back on your feet. I was busy getting ready for college when you first woke up – I was visiting the campus one last time before I move in next month, and have school start in seven weeks – but I'm here now, and I want to remind you of our moment with Finn at the 7-Eleven before you got shot? Remember? We were… nearly friends," she tells me softly. "Did you forget?"

My brows lift with realization. "Oh. Uh, no. I didn't forget, Rachel. Sorry; my head's been a mess since I woke up, you know?" It's been more like a train wreck or any house in the movie _Twister_ than merely a 'mess,' but. Specifics. Similes. Who needs 'em? "So… how have things been?"

I wait for her to respond as I tear off a chunk of the baked goods and slip it in my mouth. It's moist and good, and I honestly didn't think Rachel would make a decent baker, but she is. I munch contentedly on it and take a slurp of what's in the travel mug. It tastes… surprisingly awesome. It's tea, clearly, but I don't know what kind. It's creamy and sweet, though, not half as watery or leafy as I thought it'd taste.

"Tumulus; you know, tumbling around, turning, shifting, changing, and generally tiresome. That's how I make the word applicable to my life, anyhow. But it's been fun; I'm getting all my priorities in order, I've given up on wasting my time with Finn, and I'm heading out into the world on my own. My dads are really proud of me." And she smiles brightly. "I even have a boyfriend. I'm re-dating him, actually; he's someone I had a fling with in sophomore year, back when he was a senior. He and I are attending the same university, and he's being such a sweetheart to me, which is a welcome change from being egged."

"Egged?" I parrot. "I… actually remember that. You had yolk and whites all in your hair and on your childish granny-clothes," I say, using one of Kurt's phrases I've heard him refer to her clothing in the past. "Didn't some other school do that to you?"

She looks like she's trying to be patient with me. Sighing lightly, she remarks, "Yes… a rival show choir that went by the name of Vocal Adrenaline. Jesse St. James was in it, and he's the guy I was talking about. But that doesn't matter, really. Tell me about you, David: what's your life been like? It must feel weird, waking up after a whole year of being… missing."

If only she knew how 'missing' I was.

I shrug. "Fine. 'S been fine. I… I think Kurt and I are technically dating now; or we officially will be, once I get out of the hospital in the next few days. Is he part of the reason why you decided to bother to come see me and bring me stuff?"

She smiles. "Do you like it? The bread, the tea? That's Irish Breakfast, in case you were wondering."

"I do," I say. "It's real good. Not something I'd think to try, but I like both. Thanks." I take another bite of monkey bread. I ask with my mouth half-full: "But you didn't answer my question. So what is it?"

She makes a face. "I… well, I did want to see you, Dave, I really did. I came here a few times while you were still unconscious, but, if I'm being brutally honest, Kurt is part of the reason why I'm here. He and I have gotten quite close. I care about him a lot. And he was so hurt before, when you were sick, and I just… I needed to make sure things were all right between you two." Rachel presses a hand to her heart, and seems to blink back tears. "It was something I have to do before I left for college, and I'm just glad you woke up in time for that much."

I shrug again, glancing away. "Oh. Well, in that case… I guess you have nothing to worry about, Rache. I l– I care about him a lot, so things are going to be fine. I'm going to make sure of it."

She exhales deeply, a calm expression on her usually cheery face. "Oh, _good_." Standing, she dusts off her shirt and pats me on the knee. "Welp, I better get going. You take care, okay, Dave? And don't worry about returning the tin or the mug; consider them gifts. Tootles!" And she dashes off, a small spring in her step.

Shaking my head and grinning, I finish off most of the monkey bread and the remainder of the tea, washing it all down. Wiping my mouth, I stand, stretch, and prepare to move on with my life.

.o0o.

It's about a week after returning home – my parents freakishly doting on me, answering every beck and call, and spoiling me by giving me things when I don't even ask for anything – when Kurt asks to go out on a date with me.

"I know this is going to sound lame," he begins listlessly, giving me his I-don't-care look, "But there's that summer festival happening next weekend, and I thought you might want to go with me. We can do all those cliché couple things: ride the Ferris wheel, eat cotton candy and hot dogs, get sick on the Tilt-A-Whirl, and you can do something manly and impressive to win me a giant stuffed bear or unicorn or whatever."

I gape at him. _Is he serious?_ I quirk a brow at the singer. "Are you serious?"

We're currently at my house, chilling out on the couch, watching a movie like any pair of friends might. It's a Michael Cera film, something about an alter ego and committing arson and being in love with a girl, the goal trying to be not alone and not going to prison as a virgin. I'm clearly hardly paying attention, and definitely not imagining that Kurt's body type is like a leaner, paler version of Michael Cera's exposed self. Nope, definitely not thinking about _that._

I remove my arm from the top of the sofa, and Kurt leans out of my side to peer up at my face, my chest cold when he removes his head from it. (Okay, so, maybe we're hanging out as more than friends, but this isn't quite a date. Not a real one, anyway.)

"What? Don't you want to have some fun in the stupidest, most cliché of ways? I always have. It's admittedly one of my dating fantasies to do two things: wear a jock boyfriend's letterman – check! – and go to a carnival or festival or circus with said boyfriend. Can I have that, Dave? Please?" Kurt says, once again using his manipulative cuteness against me.

"Dammit, Hummel," I say with a roll of my eye sand a frustrated groan, head lolling back in surrender. I blow air out my mouth. "You know I can't refuse when you say it like that. But," I say, lifting my head again and glancing down at him, "I was going to say 'yes' anyway. Any date with you, overly cliché or not, sounds like a good deal to me."

"Really?" he says, true emotions on the matter leaking through for a moment as he clasps his hands together and has an ecstatic grin take over his face, revealing dimples and covering up his teeth with his plump lips and all. "I mean… cool." He tries to act serious as he turns back to facing the screen, but I can see the smile take over again.

My own mouth breaks into a grin. I love seeing him happy, especially after something I've done or agreed to; it's a million times better than the bullying, and it makes for much better memories to replace the torment with. "Cool," I repeat, and then everything is back to normal for a while.

.o0o.

I'm almost shocked at how warm Kurt is being toward me.

As the memories are becoming less jumbled together, I'm beginning to recall a few things about this timeline. Like the reason, for instance, behind my going to Kurt's house the day I got shot; he had rejected me. That's why Rachel and I had a friendly 'moment' with Finn in the mix: it's because I was broken up over how Kurt was intimidated by me loving him and saying so (accidentally, mind you, over the phone when I was drifting off to sleep). And now it had me wondering:

The love that this Kurt feels for me… is it a _guilt-induced_ love?

He said that the hate crime against me (which thankfully got fixed while I was in a coma in this timeline, the bad guys caught) was his fault, or he felt like it was his fault. And maybe, while I lay nearly lifeless in that hospital bed for so long, it made him feel guiltier and guiltier for having it happen on his lawn, me "dying" in his arms, and all for love of him. Maybe he felt compelled to love me back, it being karma or some shit as the cause for my suffering in the first place.

But I disagree. If this is how he thinks – I don't know for sure since, hey, it's not like I live in his head or anything – then it's wrong. And if it is a guilty love, I don't care, because it's still love, and it can evolve into the real thing later on if it hasn't already. I just need _time._

And this would be easy and normal – I'm only eighteen, so there is plenty of time ahead – if it weren't for the fact that I'm never sure which jump is my final one, and which Kurt I can stay beside. So I suppose my best bet is to forget about it. Focus on the "now," and live like I _do_ have time and there won't be any repercussions.

.o0o.

"Hey, Kurt," I smile, walking into the room and dropping a few cardboard boxes down, only one of them full of things.

"What are these for?" Kurt wonders aloud, and lifts a flap to peer inside one of the larger boxes.

"As it turns out, since I already took the ACT, I can go to college and earn my high school degree while I attend college classes. The community college nearby allows high school correspondence for homeschoolers, which means I can just take the classes all at once this fall. I sent an application, explained my situation, and they accepted me. My parents talked to yours, and they said if you wanted to, you could join me. Attend junior college with me for a while until all my high school is made up, and my gen eds, too. Then we can finish up college together someplace else." I smack my hand down on a box. "And these are the books I'll need, and those are the boxes I'm using to pack. Thought you might help me."

"You're going to live at the community college?" he murmurs as he absorbs all this information and helps me gather a few important items and tuck them Tetris-style into the boxes. "Of course I'll come with you, but wouldn't it be cheaper to live at home?"

"Not with all the gas I'd be wasting driving back and forth every day. I said the community college is nearby, but I didn't necessarily say it was close, Fancy. And besides, I also got a job this week. I made the call while I was still in the hospital. My older cousin lives in the same town as the college, and he got me a job. I paid for these books myself."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" Kurt frowns, looking angry with me but not enough to be full-blown pissy.

I load a few objects into a box, not really looking at what they are. "Because," I reply slowly around movements, "I didn't have all the details finished yet. And I wanted to surprise you with my masterful planning skills."

"I never knew you were so mature about these things," he remarks idly as he helps me load up the last of what one box can hold without being insanely heavy.

"Yeah, well. I've had practice," I say, trying to be vague. This Kurt doesn't know about my jumps, so I won't say anything. But for all I know, he's testing me. He could have an inkling about the jumps – this could even be one of his for all I know – but he just isn't sure, like the last Kurt, about whether or not I'm the correct Dave. After all, the realities seem to merge at times, like when I jumped out of the freshman-redo one and came back, but Kurt stayed the entire time and had to deal with a suddenly reverted, asshole-me.

"Well, it's a nice change from how you used to be a while back. So immature and afraid of things, I mean. I guess being asleep did you some good." He's trying to make light of the tragedy. I'm thankful for that; it's not something I want to see as a bad thing, since it technically brought us together again (even though we were together before this in a different way, but whatever).

"I guess it did. It made me wake up and realize that, hey, maybe I should switch my life around a little, eh?" I respond easily. Around another loading session, I stop us to take a break and get something to drink downstairs. Kurt immediately goes for the Diet Coke – his favorite, which is why I asked my mom to start buying it for me, even if I'm more of a regular Pepsi drinker – and I grab one for myself after him.

"This is exciting," he says happily, tone lighthearted and interested. "Upon reviewing the idea, I think we're going to have a ton of fun in college together, and since it's only community college, there should be less stress and more room for more personal things." He grins wickedly, and I think I know what he's getting at. But he changes the subject just to make me think he meant it innocently. "So, Finn got a new car. My dad fixed it up for him with my help. He's actually teaching Finn the same ropes I already know about mechanics."

"I still can't believe you actually agreed to learn a grimy trade like that. You seem like… the opposite type, really," I remark with a shrug. "Don't get me wrong, it's kinda hot that you know more about cars than I do, but still. It's not a very Kurt-like thing. Issues of Vogue, factoids about Tyra Banks, makeup and nail polishing tips; these are the sorts of things I'd expect you to know, not… how to change a tire or fix someone's transmission."

Kurt smirks as he glances down at his Coke. "That's part of what makes me so multi-cultural, Dave. I could tell you about Tyra's early career, tell you how to match your clothes flawlessly and how to perform the perfect mani-and-pedi, but growing up with my dad the way I did… I didn't want to let him down for being such a girly son all the time. Besides, I _am_ a boy, Dave. While I prefer to be clean and orderly, I don't mind getting messy if I'm in the proper clothes and can get the grease out from under my nails afterward. Besides, it's a handy thing to know; what if my crappy used car breaks down in the middle of nowhere? I should at least know what to look for as a problem."

I nod in complete understanding. It makes sense.

I jerk my head up at the stairs. "Shall we finish up today with the small stuff I won't need, or should we pop in one of my dad's _Spartacus_ DVDs?"

"I vote for _Spartacus_ ," Kurt said after an audible swallow. "You shouldn't be packing some of that stuff up this early, anyway. And does this constitute as a date? I never know."

"No, I think us hangin' out at my house is never quite a date unless we're making out," I muse, smirking as I lead him into the family room (not like he doesn't already know where it is, though). "But we're still on for our real date-date this weekend, right? The Summer Festival thing?"

"Definitely; do you honestly think I'd suddenly cancel on something I admitted to being one of my cutesy-romantic fantasies?" he retorts with a roll of his eyes and crossed arms over his chest, his soda can dangling from one hand under his elbow. He frees his empty hand and jabs me in the chest with his finger. "We're going."

Lifting his finger and smirking, Kurt sashays over to my couch and plops gracefully onto it. He kicks up his feet and crosses them at the ankles as they rest on the ottoman. I place the DVD into the tray, grab the remote, and settle down next to my boyfriend (God, does that sound weird to me; but oddly amazing). Kurt snuggles into my side automatically, idly making a comment about my warmth and scent before going quiet as I play an episode of the bloody-and-highly-sexual historically based TV series.

I love moments like these. It comes so naturally, too.

Kurt sips at his pop and I at mine, although he nearly chokes when a particularly attractive guy shows up half naked on the screen. I don't blame him; I'm averting my gaze with embarrassment for the same reason. I almost forget that little tidbit about this series. And I also almost forget that one of my favorite character's actor from _The Mummy_ is in this.

We watch a handful of episodes, and the hours whiz by. Sleepily, I hear Kurt's voice rise from my chest with a trace of a yawn, "Dave… what time is it?"

"Almost six. My parents should be home from work soon."

Kurt makes a noncommittal grunt in the back of his throat for a moment, but then he shoots up, scrambling to look at me. "Wait. Your parents. Aren't they wigging out? And by this, I mean: aren't they stressed about you going away after returning from a coma? Don't they miss you and want to keep you to themselves? I know my dad would."

I shrug. I try to act like it's normal. In truth, my mom is a jumper; she's had plenty of time with me, and she knows that I need to focus on what I want and need as far as having my life goes and doing what I must in that life. And my dad… well, he's still shaken up, it's true, but he knows that I'm a jumper and that the coma was okay, nothing too awful, and he's prepared to let me be independent and responsible and all that shit.

"They're okay now, I guess. They know that now that I'm awake and functional, I need to gain my life back. So that's exactly what they're letting me do," I say, and it's as good an answer as any.

"Hn. I see," Kurt hums vaguely, and returns to his comfortable position against me. I gaze down at him, watching his eyelashes flutter close to his cheek, indicating that he's drifting off again (despite the loud violence on the television in front of us). "Well… wake me when they get back. I'll just… leave before you have your family meal."

"Why not stay?" I murmur, and Kurt tilts his head back, eyes opening up to look at me above his eyebrows.

"You sure I wouldn't be imposing?"

"Hell no. My parents love you. Especially my mom; God, if I knew she'd bond with you this much, I wouldn't have ever let you two meet. She treats you like her second son." – Which is a slightly unnerving and yet exhilarating thought, because what if that means Kurt winds up actually being her son-in-law in the future, and that's why she's so fine with him being around and close to me, and why she acts like he's already one of the Karofskys? I swear, if that winds up being the truth, I will flip out. In a good way, mostly.

Kurt chuckles. "I like it. It's nice to be liked by your boyfriend's parents. It means your relationship with that person is accepted and right."

"…Good point," I agree mildly. Gesturing to the TV, I pose, "Are we done here?"

Kurt nods and gets up to stretch. "Yeah. I don't think I can take any more warriors on a rampage." He scratches a spot on his arm delicately before getting an odd look on his face. "Be right back. I need to use your bathroom."

"Oh. Okay," I say with a shrug, and pretend not to follow his butt with my eyes. Once he's out of sight, I straight up and crack my neck. I shouldn't have had it craned like that; I should have just given in and rest my head atop his like I had wanted to.

I pick up our empty cans and toss them in the recycling before returning to the family room to put away the DVDs. By this time, Kurt is exiting the bathroom, smelling freshly of hand soap.

"Hey, Dave," he addresses, and I glance up from my task to raise a brow at him. He goes on with a devious smirk on his face, "I don't think you've kissed me yet today. This is completely in error; correct it right now." And he delicately taps his lips with two fingers, indicating obviously where the correction must be made.

And this is one of the many reasons why I love Kurt.

Laughing minutely, I shut off the TV and toss the DVD case onto the coffee table. I step over to him and casually drop my hands to rest on his hips. His arms hook around my shoulders, his hands dangling loosely at the base of my neck. It's such an easy stance for us; something I'm accustomed to, and look forward to.

"Sorry; didn't mean to forget. I wouldda figured you would be tired of me kissing you all the time. That's how this mess started, after all," I remind him softly.

It's how our relationship always starts. The romantic one, anyway. In every version of my life with him I can think of, I've always been the one to initiate that first kiss.

"Then perhaps I should start this time?" Kurt whispers, his eyes falling to half-mast as he leans up the last inch-or-so in height difference between us (dammit, he got taller again while I was in that coma!). "Since I can't expect you to take the lead every time, Dave… Kar… _off… ski_ …"

I feel my heart speed up, the organ doing a wild dance between my lungs. I feel my eyes slip shut before I even think to do so, and I feel Kurt's breath ghost over my lips. His chest brushes mine, and his hands graze the curve of my shoulders before resting on my biceps, clinging to the muscle there, his nails a prick on my skin where my sleeve rides up.

I feel really warm as his lips connect with mine. But I love this feeling; I live for it. I wish I could taste him all the time, feel him pressed firmly against me every second of every day. I wish I could hold him to me at night, keep his hand in mine during the day. The feel of Kurt is an addicting sensation, and it's all I can think of as his talented tongue slithers into my mouth and I respond accordingly, my hands starting to palm his sides, running along them, and letting my thumbs slip beneath the waistband of his skinny jeans.

Kurt's breath hitches when I do so, and I can feel him tense against me. I remove my thumbs, worried, but he breaks the kiss and mutters, "No, it's okay," and goes to work on my ear, licking the shell and nibbling the lobe until I find myself moaning his name into his own ear.

"I love you so much," I mumble as I turn my nose into the left side of his neck. I press a small kiss there, right on his scar. I can feel the uneven skin beneath my lips. My thumbs find their way just under the rim of his pants again, the pads brushing the elastic of his underwear. A thrill runs through me, electrifying and arousing, and I try to keep calm even as Kurt's lips – born of years of practice lip-syncing in front of his bedroom mirror, no doubt – mouth at the tender skin of my neck and collarbones, breathing hotly onto my shirt.

I stifle another moan when his hips uncontrollably jerk forward and collide with mine. I can feel him, and this is the first time I have felt this. I panic a little inside; what do I do? Should I stop? What if my parents find us standing here like this, all wrapped up in each other? And what is he expecting from me?

"I love you, too," he breathes, and it's just about enough for me to toss my inhibitions aside and do whatever he asks for, and to follow his lead in anything he does.

But the sound of a car door slamming outside and then the click of dress shoes on the sidewalk jars Kurt and I apart from each other.

My dad's home.

I straighten my clothes while Kurt does the same. We hear the key in the lock, and the sound of the front door opening. We both try to calm our breathing and racing hearts as my dad walks in, setting down his briefcase and smiling politely at us.f

"Hey, boys. Hope I wasn't interrupting anything?" he jokes gruffly, probably noticing how we're fidgeting and shifting foot to foot about five feet apart from one another in the middle of the living room. Oh, my dad the not-so-kidder. I pray he doesn't realize that our pants aren't quite fitting correctly in a particular area.

I start to follow my dad into the kitchen. "Nope. Nope, nothing at all. We were just putting a DVD away. Uh. What's for dinner?" I say, rushing into the topic. "And can Kurt stay for it?"

"I was just going to order some Thai take-out," my dad shrugs, reaching for his cell phone. "You mother and I agreed on it over the phone when I was leaving work. She has a hankering for Pad Thai, and you know how she gets over those damn noodles."

Without looking I know that Kurt is sending me a confused glance, and without hesitating, I mutter over my shoulder to him, "My mom's been obsessed with Pad Thai noodles ever since she tried them at an Asian buffet restaurant once. She's also a little obsessed with sushi."

"I love sushi! And Pad Thai. Asian food is some of my favorite food, actually. If it isn't from some greasy Chinese food place, it can be really clean-tasting and good for you." He smiles minutely as he makes his way into the kitchen and grabs another Diet Coke. "May I please stay for dinner, Mr. Karofsky?"

My dad smiles. "I can't say no to you, Kurt. You're probably the best thing that's happened for my son, so of course you can stay. Is it all right with your parents, or since you're eighteen now, do they not care?"

"They don't care. They figure that as long as I call in and check with them here and there to assure them that I'm safe or give them fair warning as to when I'll be home, they could care less what I do." Kurt replies nonchalantly. He seats himself at our dinner table, and my dad nods.

"All right then. I'll make the order. What would you like, Kurt? David?" he asks, dialing the number and raising his cell to his ear.

"Spring rolls and chicken Pad Thai," Kurt answers immediately.

"Um," I mutter, not sure. "The same, I guess? I dunno. I'm used to the greasy Chinese when it comes to ordering stuff."

"The dinners are large; would you two mind splitting one?" he dad asks around the order he already put in for himself and my mom. "And David, I think you'd like their pot sticker dumplings."

"Uh, sure. I'll try that. Does it come in beef?"

He nods, and then, to the person on the phone – from here, it sounds like it could be a woman – he makes the order. After a minute longer, he's clicking off his phone and slipping it into his back pocket. "It should arrive in the next hour. That gives your mother plenty of time to get home."

"'Kay," I murmur, and shrug my hands into my pockets.

Things are suddenly more awkward while my dad is around, but I don't know, maybe that's just me. If I remember correctly, this is the same version of my dad who stood up for me against his boss because his boss made a remark about me being gay, but I can't remember entirely. Too much has happened in too many different ways for me to tell. But it's good, I guess, that he doesn't mind that Kurt's my boyfriend. At least there's that.

I turn to Kurt, spinning on my socked feet on the linoleum floor to face him. "Hey. Wanna play a video game up in my room until dinner gets here?"

"Sure," Kurt agrees, "Since I have gotten better at them since you fell into a coma."

"Make sure to keep the bedroom door open, boys," my dad reminds casually as Kurt and I start to make our way up the stairs.

I freeze mid-step on the second-to-bottom stair. "Dad!" I growl with a flush on my cheeks.

All I hear is my dad's chuckles and suddenly I feel Kurt at my elbow, grinning madly and leaning up against my back as he steps onto the bottom stair. "I think it's cute that he knows our hormones better than we do," he mutters.

I grumble something incoherent and along the lines of, 'Well fuck him,' under my breath as I make my way up to my bedroom. Kurt tags along behind, amused, and I just feel hot in the face.

"Aw, you're cute when you're embarrassed, Dave. It's hilarious. If I would've known you'd be this grumpy-soft when you got flustered, I would have either dated you sooner for the amusement of it all, or at least used it as a weak spot to cease some of the bullying," Kurt remarks airily as we enter my bedroom.

I ignore him and turn on my Xbox, selecting a game at random – hoping it's something he'll like – and popping the game into the drive.

"Is that Final Fantasy XIII?" Kurt says with a gasp, racing over to grab a controller.

"Um, yeah? It's kind of a girly game – the main character is a chick, after all – but it's cool."

"Cool? Are you kidding me? I love the Final Fantasy games! Some of them are really difficult, but the characters are amazing and have the most epic of fashion senses! My personal favorite is VII," Kurt says happily, scooting next to me and peering over my shoulder.

"You and half the world," I retort with a snort. "Everybody fuckin' loves Cloud."

"I like him, too, but not as much as I like Vincent and Reno. Those two can have my heart any day."

"Hey, now, what about me?" I say with a quirk of my brow as I take his controller from him and hand him mine. It's mainly a single-player game, so I let him play for a while. We can switch off after Lightning dies in a fight or something.

Kurt's surprisingly skilled at this, though. It's a long time before he dies. We keep up the conversation intermittently while he plays, pressing buttons like a maniac. "You can share me, I suppose." He smirks. "It's all in jest, though. You come first, Dave."

My chest swells with a little bit of pride at the thought that I'm number one in prissy-perfect Kurt Hummel's heart. Messy, meaty Dave Karofsky is number one in his eyes. It's a concept I don't mind wrapping my mind around.

"Argh! Mother fucker!" Kurt curses loudly and suddenly. I jolt upright from my relaxed position leaning back on my hands.

"What the Hell, Kurt? Since when does your mouth spew such garbage?" I ask, furrowing my brows and trying my hardest not to laugh.

"Since this ugly, fashion-less fucker won't _die_!" Kurt hisses, making the pink-haired character kick repeatedly into the enemy's chest. "Dammit, get down! DOWN! …There, ha! Got you, sucka," Kurt grins. He suddenly pauses the game and stares at me. "Whoa. I don't know where that came from. I think Finn's frustrated game-induced violence is beginning to rub off on me."

This time I do laugh. It sputters out of my throat before I can stop it. I fall backward on my bed and press one hand to my chest to calm my diaphragm, but it's just too fuckin' funny.

"Shut up, David," Kurt spits back like a riled up cat, smacking me on the lower thigh. The slap hurts, even though my jeans, but it's somehow even funnier that he's taking out his aggressions on me that I laugh even harder. Someone like him isn't very good at being pissed and is even worse at swearing. It's so cute, like watching a little kid try to be a lion or a tiger (or a bear, oh my!).

Choosing to ignore me completely, Kurt continues playing until we hear my dad call up the stairs to get us to come down for dinner. At this point I've just been lying back on my bed, knees dangling over the edge, arms folded behind my head, as I watched the screen and Kurt's back. I like how he sways in place, shoulders revolving every time the character moves, as if he's really there, in the game. It's adorable.

"Okay, we'll be right down!" I holler back, and, sitting up, tap Kurt on the shoulder. "Come on, dude. Food's here."

"I know, I know," he sighs. "It's just so much fun. I was never able to get this one," he comments idly as he turns off the Xbox and follows me out of the room.

Down at dinner, my mom's there, and I greet her before we all tuck in to the smorgasbord of food displayed on the dining table. I grab a plate, fill it, and sit down with everyone else. There's light conversation between us, and it's so strange how Kurt seems to blend in with us Karofskys, even though we're all very different people. My dad the businessman; my mom the working mother; me the jock; Kurt the fashionista. Not to mention the gay-to-straight fifty-fifty ratio going on here, my parents on one half of the table and Kurt and I on the other.

But… it's nice. Comfortable. And it's something I wouldn't mind being a part of more often in the future, both near and distant.


	17. Chapter 17

_Today's the day,_

I repeat to myself mentally in the mirror.

_Today's the day_

_You take Kurt out for a real date,_

_Not just a mall-date,_

_And make him happy_

_But doing one of the things he's wanted to do for a while now:_

_Go to our town's cheesy festival with_

_The person he loves._

_You can do this,_

I assure myself,

_And you won't mess it up._

And I at least hope so. I hope I won't make some sort of mistake and make him hate me. Well, okay, he will never hate me, but getting him angry or annoyed with me is almost as bad. I can't stand it when he's like that, because it reminds me too closely of similar, hate-based emotions he used to display around me before.

With a sigh, I call my mother upstairs. "Mom! Help me find something to wear!"

I normally don't care what I look like, but appearances matter to Kurt, and I don't want to let him down by showing up so-not-dressed for the occasion. It's a date, so I should look good, but I can't look to fancy or else my clothes will only stand out in the crowd. And going with a guy like I am… I don't want to stand out any more than I already have to.

"Oh, David. You are so pathetic," my mother teases lightheartedly. She shuffles past me, reaches into my closet, slides my clothes around the hangers on the pole until she locates two shirts. One is a button-up, plaid, and soft cotton. The other is a long-sleeved waffle-styled shirt, you know, the textures ones with tiny squares indented into it? The plaid is green with hints of dark grey and brown; the waffle-print is a matching dark brown. "Here, wear these with your favorite jeans. It'll bring out the colors in your eyes and coordinate with your hair. That's why I originally bought them, anyway."

I frown at her, but nod my thanks and take the articles of clothing. She leaves, and I shut my door behind her so that I can change out of the towel still wrapped around my waist.

After getting dressed, I do my hair (and by this, I mean semi-brush it out and let it air-dry naturally) and spritz a squirt or two of cologne, just a bit, since the stuff can be too strong otherwise. I grab my wallet, double-check the money I have saved for this, and then shove it in my pocket. And then I'm ready to go, with the exception of my shoes. Those are downstairs by the door, waiting to be put on for when I go pick up my date.

"Don't you look spiffy," my mother smiles as I walk down the stirs. "Just like I planned. You need to wear all those clothes I buy you more often; some of them look really good on you, dear. But here, unbutton the first few buttons on that plaid shirt. You need to see some of the longer-sleeved one underneath, and I'm sure Kurt will thank me for buying it tight enough to show off those adorable little pecs you've got going on there."

"Mom? Kindly shut the Hell up," I grumble, trying to sound less whiny and fiercer. I don't think I'm succeeding.

She laughs at me, gives me a quick hug, and hands me the keys to dad's nice sports car.

I raise an eyebrow. "We're only going to that festival thing."

"Yeah, but his car has the best stereo, and you and I both know Kurt would love that. Music blasting on the way to a date is good times, and even greater if you both sing along to the music. So take Paul's car, dear, and have fun, all right?" she instructs, and dangles the keys until I snatch them up.

"Yeah, all right. Thanks, Mom," I say, and she taps her cheek. Pretending to be reluctant, I lean over and give her a quick peck on her cheekbone. She smiles – I feel it before I see it – and shoves me playfully.

"Now get going! The last thing you want to do is keep your date waiting."

"I'll see you around eleven or midnight, then," I shrug, turning on my heel and marching toward the door. I slip on my shoes and leave, hearing my mom call out something along the lines of, 'I love you, sweetie!'

When I arrive at Kurt's house, I click my tongue impatiently where I stand at the door.

Finally, Kurt answers, and I have to do a double-take. Kurt's hair is purposely styled _upward,_ spiked up and pushes back a little, sticking out at the sides where he normally might part it to one area or another. And his eyebrows look different – clearer-shaped – and his clothes are just… Well, they're mostly casual, like mine, but they're also something out of the ordinary for him, and they are clinging to him in all the right ways.

I can hear Burt Hummel making a grunting sound in the background, most likely the sound of, 'Be careful, don't do naughty sexual things please, and make sure he treats you right,' most likely triggered by the way I know I'm eyeing Kurt.

'As if I'd let you down, sir,' I want to reply to his unspoken direction. But I hold my tongue, and walk Kurt's out to the car. He slips inside it, and I going around to the other end and climb in.

"You have no idea how excited I am," Kurt grins, and I actually don't know. He looks so calm; hands folded in his lap, soft expression in his eyes. But he's dressed in rave-colored clothing and even has two bangle bracelet glow sticks around his left wrist. "This is going to be so much fun. I haven't been to Lima's summer festival in a long while. During my middle school years, I hated it and never went because I thought I had outgrown it. But now I feel myself drawn to nostalgic things, since I'll be leaving for college soon. And what better way to enjoy them than with my boyfriend?" he muses, glancing over at me and reaching across the space between our car seats to run his fingers down the length of my arm. "You look fantastic, by the way. This is something I would have dressed you up in."

"…Really?" I question with a funny tone, and I quickly change it with a forced clearing of my throat. I sound firmer-voiced and less flustered when I add, "Thank you. I didn't want to sound creepy, but, uh, you look _really_ fucking hot."

Kurt chuckles at my phrasing, and leans over to touch his forehead to my bicep. Leaning away again, he says, "You can never sound creepy to me, Dave Karofsky. You're my boyfriend after all. As long as you don't start killing people for my namesake or something, you're fine."

"I'll make a note of that: don't get revenge of those who wrong Kurt, because Kurt will disapprove of murder."

Kurt laughs again at that, and soon, we're pulling up behind a line of cars and getting out, walking over to the festival.

Stores have booths set up at the top of a small hill that are nothing but white tents. Little pop-up, cubic, white tents. One or two places have a cart or trailer, but most of them are tents. Every single last one is selling either food or cheesy toys and t-shirts.

My stomach growls as soon as I smell the mingling of foods: cotton candy, hot dogs, burgers, chocolate, soft pretzels, cheese, pizza, sausage. All sorts of scents, and each and every one is making my mouth water.

"Would it be dumb of me to get something to eat before going on a ride?" I state aloud, glancing over at Kurt.

He grins. "Yes, actually. I want to go on all the ones that make weaker men ill," he replies. "But if you're really hungry and think you can take it…"

"I can," I say defiantly, puffing out my chest slightly. "I have an iron stomach."

"Well then, let's get something for you to eat. What'd you have in mind?" Kurt says smoothly, and I think he's enjoying this; I can tell by the way he's guiding me with both of his arms wrapped around one of mine like an anime girl's arms on her crush's. I smile lopsidedly, because it's kind of endearing. He leads me over to a booth with food from one of the best Asian food places in town. "I guess I'm a little hungry, too," he admits as he buys himself an egg roll. He gestures to the tent next door. "They have fried chicken."

As much as I love fried chicken, I'm in the mood for a burger. "Nah, not tonight. I'll be right back; I think I see some of Bill's Burgers." Bill's is a little diner on the edge of town, and they have amazing burgers of all flavors and sizes.

I order a BLT burger with cheese, a quarter-pounder.

"I might regret this later," I say as I sip a cherry-and-Coke mixed slushie from a different tent and settle down on a bench with Kurt at my elbow. He shrugs and sips at some iced tea he found at the same Asian place as his egg roll.

"I might, too. Maybe we should go on one of the smoother rides first, or walk around and play games for a while our stomachs settle. It really isn't a smart idea to ride these rides when your tummy's full."

I smile at his use of the childish word 'tummy.' It sounds cute. "I vote the gaming. Most people will have their fill of the rides now and play the games afterward, when most of the booths are lit up and more appealing. Plus, don't you want to save the rides for when they're all colorful and bright?"

"Definitely," he agrees. "So let's go! I'm done eating, and we don't have all night."

"Not so fast, babe!" I warn him with a grin. "We athletes might be known for scarfing down food, but that's just not true," I inform him. "You gotta give my esophagus time to get the food down to my gut before I shove more into my mouth!"

He laughs at that, and after a short trip to the huge garbage can a few feet away, he settles down beside me again and worms his way into my side under my raises arm. I lift my arm up further, pulling my food away from my lips, and while chewing with a puffed cheek, I quirk a catlike brow at him.

"What?" he asks, peering up at me. "I'm happy. Can't I act like it?"

"That depends," I say as I swallow, and then dab my mouth. I crumble up my wrapper and toss it toward the trash, making it in the basket. I raise my hands at the minute success before addressing Kurt again. "Depends on whether or not I can keep you this happy. You're a lot more carefree when you're this happy."

"Am I?" Kurt remarks distantly, contemplating the concept. "Huh. I wouldn't have noticed. I do feel… _lighter,_ at least. A little unlike my usual uptight self. But it's a welcome change, I assure you."

"Oh, well that's… good. Hey, is that Hudson?" I say, gesturing to his stepbrother. I frown as something occurs to me. "The last time I talked to Rachel, she said she was back with that Jesse kid, the guy who came to our school for a little while. But, I'm remembering something from a– from before I went into a coma," I save myself, nearly giving away my time traveling. "Her and Hudson has promise rings or something, I think."

"Oh. Well. Uh… that sort of… fell through. Finn wound up cheating on Rachel with Quinn since he and Quinn had started to get closer to one another around the time of the Championship game junior year," Kurt explains tragically. He sighs. "I always told Rachel to let it go, that her and Finn might not be perfect for one another after all, but I think they might've been soul mates. There are different kinds of soul mates, as I've been told; friends, lovers, and family can all be sorts of soul mates. But there's supposedly the ultimate soul mate, the one who completes you or something, who you'll love until your dying day."

Kurt shakes his head as himself as he snuggles against me on the bench while I polish off my drink. I eye him curiously, but don't bother questioning or opposing his views. They sound kind of New Age-y and make sense to me in a weird way. If anything, I think it's probable; reincarnation might be true, too. Isn't that sort of what my time traveling has been like? Dying and being reborn, except at different intervals in my life?

"Sorry, I'm rambling. Don't mind me. I tend to get carried away about romance sometimes. It's… something I've craved for as long as I can remember." He looks up at me with an unfamiliar look in his eyes. "Actually… you might be giving me that romance. Or am I imagining things?"

I blink hard once or twice. "Whuh…? No, I don't think you're imagining things," I say quietly. I swallow the last of my drink and toss it, too, into the trash a few feet away. It doesn't make it this time, so I push Kurt up and throw it away regularly. Kurt and I start walking down a pathway of booths, separate from the food ones on the grassy hill, and down along all of the pavement normally vacant in the parking lot of a closed-down bank.

"Hey, can we play _that_ game?" Kurt suggests after a couple minutes of thoughtful silence between us.

He's pointing to the carnival game where you pay for a number of darts, throw them at some balloons, and depending either on which row or which color or what's behind the balloon on the wall (it varies vendor to vendor), you win a prize. A bunch of Velcro-handed monkeys and stuffed pandas all of various colors and sizes line this booth.

"Sure. But I thought you'd want me to win you something as big as you are, like all those girls in the movies expect," I relay casually as Kurt half-skips over to the booth. He glances back at me, cheeks lightly flushed, eyes sparkling. I stop dead in my tracks. He's grown, and he's handsome, but at the same time, I can't help thinking how fucking beautiful he is, like a girl, but so, so much better since he isn't a girl.

"Nah, overly big stuffed animals are a pain to carry. Besides, my dad already thinks I'm feminine. I don't want to further solidify the fact," he jokes, and asks the man (who's smiling oddly warmly at us for a resident of Lima, Ohio, the stereotypical Midwestern state that dislikes gays) for five darts, which is five dollars.

"This should be good," I muse, watching as Kurt clutches the darts and takes one into his throwing arm. He cranes the appendage back, wrist cocked, and then lets loose.

The dart goes flying, and narrowly misses a balloon. But even so, it grazes it enough to make the sensitive thing burst, and the startling sound of a popped balloon makes me jump in place.

"I got it, I got it!" Kurt cheers.

"That's one prize down, but only one of the smaller ones, kid. Would you like to claim it now, or see if you can go for a triple- or quintuple-shot?" the carnie booth guy says with a painfully cheerful, shit-eating grin.

"I'm gonna hold out for at least the triple, but let me use all five darts before I claim a prize, okay?"

"Okay, but the hits have to be consecutive," the man responds, and ah, I see where the trick in this is, then. You have to hit them all in a row, no breaks, or else you only get one small prize instead of a bigger, better one.

Kurt's tongue sticks out as a determined expression settles over his eyebrows and his eyes narrow. It's so adorable and oddly him-like that I have to look away to hold back a chortle. I grin, though, and cover my mouth with my hand to hide it.

"Don't laugh at me, Dave! I will kick your ass," Kurt remarks curtly, that video game dirty talk coming back. "Now… let me focus…"

And he launches another dart, and the balloon pops again.

"That's two for two, kid. Now can you get five for five? Or even just three for three?" the guy coaxes, and Kurt nods firmly, competitively.

"I'll get five for five for sure," Kurt mutters, and in a swift movement, he throws another dart. Then another. And then the final dart is thrown, and he gets a balloon each time.

I raise both my brows at his perfect aim. Lucky bastard.

"I did it, I _won_!" he cheers. He glares at me jokingly. "In your _face,_ Karofsky! I don't need you to win me anything; I can do it myself, ha!"

"So I've noticed," I comment airily as I drape my arm over his shoulders and he selects a prize: a panda that has bright red instead of black blobs on it, the red nearly resembling a letterman jacket.

"I'm going to name this one David," Kurt says softly. "Because pandas are cute but fierce, and this one's wearing red, which always seems like it's your color because of your letterman."

"You're so weird," is all I can think to say. I'm beyond flattered, and that mushy, lovey-dovey feeling is bubbling up in my chest, making my heart soar.

Kurt slips under my arm, trying to tickle me with the stuffed toy with a goofy expression on his face. I laugh and bat the panda away, but as I do so, it accidentally falls from Kurt's hand and lands in the dirt, horribly placed on some spilt soda.

"NO!" Kurt cries, and drops into a crouch to scoop the bear up. He holds it out, inspects it, tries shaking off the sticky dirt. "David…" he murmurs, and I honestly don't know if he's speaking to the panda or me.

"Uh, it's okay, Kurt," I say, trying to be reassuring, "I can win you another red panda. Okay?"

He sniffles, but doesn't cry. "Yeah, okay." Sighing, he looks up at me. "But what do I do with this one? Just throw it away? I'm sure I could wash it if I took it home, but I don't want to carry around a dirty bear…"

"I'll run it back to the car. You can stay around here. I'll find you again, and then I'll win you something else. Sound reasonable?" I offer, trying to get his spirits back up. I feel bad that he went from a ten to a zero in mood so quickly.

"Quite reasonable," he remarks with a small smile. "Thanks, Dave." And he hands me the panda. I'm going to need to wash my hands after touching this thing. There are grains of dirt, splotches of mud and soda all over it. I pick off a stray blade of grass from it as I walk back to the car with it. I toss it in the back, behind my seat. Locking the car up again, it's not ten minutes later when I've found Kurt.

I still in my steps, however, when I spot Kurt talking to someone. Someone with curly black hair loose from its normal gel hold, and even for a trip to the town's fair, he's all spiffy-looking, like a male model.

Fucking _Blaine._

I stomp over to where they stand, chatting it up by the cotton candy booth. Blaine is handed a spiral of blue, and he plucks off a chunk of the edible fluff of sugar and lets it melt in his mouth as he smiles at Kurt. He even goes as far as to offer Kurt some, and I'm weaving my way furiously through the crowd until I'm right by their sides, a spot of blue cotton candy on the corner of Kurt's lips by the time I get there.

I make sure to grab Kurt's hand possessively and give it a squeeze as I strain to smile at Blaine. "Hey, Slick. How're you?"

"Oh, uh. Hello… Karmaski, was it?"

I twitch when the mistaken name sounds like 'karma.' "That's _Karofsky_ to you, bub. _Dave_ Karofsky. I'm Kurt's boyfriend." I sneer, and Kurt glances between us, not liking the atmosphere.

But Blaine really cool about everything, and even looks mildly amused, like he's happy for Kurt and happy for me for being out of the closet. And I want to knock his teeth in, because, dammit, I don't want him to be fine with it! I've always felt like I was vying against him for Kurt's heart in the past, and now it suddenly doesn't matter?

"That's wonderful to hear," Blaine replies with a genuine smile. Stop smiling at me, Blaine. Seriously, stop it. I don't want you to be friendly to me. And I _really_ don't want you to be friendly with Kurt. At all. _Ever_. If I can help it, that is. "Kurt and I were just talking about you, actually."

This catches my attention. "Say what?"

"Yeah! We were saying that you should sing with us sometime, since, while you were in a coma, I was one of Kurt's support lines, and he mentioned that you could sing. He and I got very close during all of that. Hasn't he told you?"

Okay, I'm back to hating him entirely, now. But the problem is, I don't know if I should. It could be an act, but he looks like he's really oblivious to how jealous I can be of him (I know he's more attractive and more Kurt's type than I am, despite who Kurt's currently with; plus, I'm sure he sings better than me, and singing really matters to Kurt). He also seems oblivious to just how bastardly his words sound to me.

Blaine goes on, "Anyway, I think the three of us could be good friends. And besides, gays should stick together in a town like this, don't you think?"

I'm about to tell him to shut the fuck up and leave me alone, but Kurt cuts me off, as if anticipating this reaction from me. He smiles tightly at the tension I'm giving off and says as he releases my hand, "I think it's a great idea, don't you, Dave? Singing a duet is nice, but the more voices, the better. And I was just telling Blaine about how funny it was to fun into him here, since he normally lives outside of Lima."

"Yeah, a real coinky-dink," I mutter. I wonder if it's a coincidence at all, or if Blaine was hoping to see Kurt here with or without a date.

"It's just nice to see you up and about, Karofsky. I was so worried about Kurt while you were unconscious. I'm just glad you came out of it so soon," Blaine says, and this is where I can actually hear the twinge of regret and envy.

Ah, so Prep Boy isn't as okay with me as I thought. To anyone else he might sound hurt and vulnerable right there, but I see it in the way he tightens his jaw afterward that he doesn't like me. He wants to be in my place, both physically, as in by Kurt's side as his date, and metaphorically, as in the place in Kurt's heart.

Well too bad, bitch. Kurt's _mine._

I growl sarcastically, "I bet you are, Blaine. I'm sure you're very glad that you're not needed as Kurt's backup plan anymore, and that I get to have him all to myself. I bet you're just fucking blissful over the fact that Kurt fell in love with an unconscious person, and that you could only sit and watch as I stole him away from you."

"Dave!" Kurt scolds, turning to stand in front of me. He pushes me with both hands flat on my chest to back me away from Blaine, who looks intimidated and angry at the same time. Kurt, on the other hand, is glaring at me. He points a finger in my direction. "How _dare_ you attack my friend like that! Blaine wasn't implying anything as far as I could tell! He's always just been a friend to me, a kind friend who _cared_ and tried to guide me even when he himself was just a conflicted a teenager as I am. Was. _Whatever._ The point is, _Karofsky,_ you have no right to say any of that. I won't let you."

I swallow hard and blink once or twice. Okay, so my temper got out of hand, but… What the fuck is this?

"Look, I'm _sorry_ ," I say through grit teeth. I sigh, rub my temples, and try to switch the scenario back around to the tender beginnings of our date. "I didn't mean to lay into him like that. I'm sorry to you, too, Blainey-boy. Let's just, uh, forget it ever happened and move on, okay? I was gonna win you another animal, right, Kurt? So… uh…"

Kurt doesn't look like the moment will leave his memory any time soon. "You know what, Dave? I think you still need some time to cool off. I can tell you're forcing that just for my sake. And while I appreciate it, I also need time to chill. So, for at least twenty minutes, I'm going to walk around with Blaine. I'll meet you at the Tilt-A-Whirl after the sun is set."

And he storms off, Blaine in tow, Blaine sending me a confused, remorseful, but slightly triumphant glace as he's taken away by the wrist of his free, non-cotton-candy-wielding hand.

_God fucking dammit!_

I kick at a stray wrapper of some sort on the ground. Then, oddly, I pick it up and throw it away. Shoving my hands deep into my jeans pockets, I stride over to a ride at random and pay to get on it. It's a turbulent spinning ride that resembles a giant spider juggling flies, the flies being the cars you sit in that spin while the arms rotate around the body. The whole thing moves up and down, too, which is sure to throw my equilibrium off.

Perfect.

I climb into one fly alone, and lock myself into it. But before the ride starts, a blonde girl needs a seat, and suddenly she's approaching me and asking to sit with me. It's Quinn.

"Whoa. Um, hi, Fabray. What's up?" I ask as she climbs in next to me.

She smiles. "Hey, you. It's so good to have you back."

"How so? I was a jerk," I remind her.

"Mm, maybe. But tons of guys are jerks. It's the way of the world," she reminds me, and she seems a lot… sweeter than before. She tosses her head and her hair follows suit. As the ride starts up, she makes a happy noise and clings to the lap bar. "I love this ride. I used to go on it constantly when I was a kid."

"Really? I never went to this stupid festival very much. I didn't like doing anything but sports in the summer when I was younger, and my parents never wanted to take me here anyway. They'd rather take me to something more educational. I guess they've changed their parents over the years," I grunt, shrugging, and I glance out at the scenery as we pass by it in a great circle.

Quinn touches my forearm. "You okay, Karofsky?"

"Doesn't matter. Just enjoy the ride. I'm trying not to get nauseous as we speak," and it's true. I'm trying very hard not to. "Dizzy 's fine, but nauseous? N-not… cool." I take in a shaky breath and release it slowly as the ride gets faster and faster.

"You ate something, did you? Not smart, when you plan on going on this ride," she replies with a roll of her eyes. She scoots closer and places her hand – cool, even in the humid summer air – over my eyes. "There. This should help. It's how I'd get through it when I was younger."

"Thanks, Quinn, but at this point, I'd rather have my brains scrambled a little." I winkle my nose and breathe easier. "Still… it helps with the nausea, I guess."

"Good. The ride should be almost over. You can last, big guy."

And she's right. I can. Because even with this churning in my gut and my brains swishing about, I'm thinking clearer. And I realize that I'm being extremely foolish.

As soon as the ride ends, I thank Quinn again and give her a smile, telling her something vague as I rush off. She wishes me well with a wave.

I locate Kurt near the Ferris wheel, about to get on said ride. "Kurt!" I call out above the bodies intersecting my path.

No, no, no! I can't let Kurt get on what's always been deemed the most romantic ride with someone like Blaine!

"KURT!" I shout, and this time, he hears me. I nearly run into him as I dash to his side and grasp his hand. "He-ey," I say tremulously, "I thought we were saving this ride as the grand finale?" I sound a smidge breathless, and near him, Blaine gives me a fleeting look of understanding. He _knows._ He can see how much I love Kurt, and it… it looks like Blaine _respects_ this about me. Huh, weird.

But Kurt refuses to look my way.

My brows meet at this. I reach up and cup his face, turning it toward me. "Hey, _look at me_." His eyes flicker to my face, and I drop my hands. "I'm _sorry._ Don't let this ruin our date. Please," I tack this onto the end as an afterthought to sweeten the phrase, since it sounds a tad demanding on its own.

"I –" Kurt tries. He shakes his head and rephrases the unsaid words. "I know. I was actually just about to get on it with Blaine just to spite you."

I smile in a way that I know must look odd. "Yeah, I figured as much."

"You shouldn't have snapped at him like that. Blaine even told me that he didn't mean anything by it."

I wince. "Yeah, I… I know."

"But Kurt, you're forgetting: I also said that it was very sweet of him to be so very protective of you," Blaine reminds with a light smirk. He winks in my direction and leans over to tap my on the bicep with two knuckles. "You're a good guy, Dave Karofsky."

I stare at him for a moment. Something just changed right here, but I can't put my finger on it, exactly.

Smiling at the pair of us, Blaine makes a weird little head tilt and a close-lipped smile. His thick eyebrows are lax and his eyes are soft. "I think it would be best if I take my leave. Enjoy your evening, gentlemen," he states in the most dapper of ways, and then flits off in a random direction, possibly headed for a ride or a game or food. Or, now that he's met up with Kurt and accessed the situation, possibly headed for home.

I turn back to my boyfriend. "So, um… are you still mad?"

"No, since Blaine seems fine. I just… for a moment there, I saw the old you, and it scared me," Kurt murmurs, and he looks torn for a minute.

I never want to hear that again.

"Well, hey, while we're here, let's ride this one, okay? It's dark enough, I think. And the Ferris wheel is classic. You can't resist its charms for long, am I right?" I advise, trying to get that flawlessly happy mood back. I don't want this date to be a flop, not when it's the first solid one I've had with Kurt.

"Yeah, okay," he replies, and I buy us entry onto it. It's one of the less-cheap Ferris wheels that have little bubbles instead of open, boxy benches with backs. I slide into the bubble, able to see everything from all angles due to the clear plastic. It's a high wheel, too, and I feel the edges of vertigo around my head, threatening to condense my brain and skull as the machine starts to move.

"…Dave?" Kurt says, and snaps me from my freaky feeling.

"Huh?"

"You look a little green," he says, concerned.

"Uh," I mumble, "I might be slightly afraid of heights," I admit meekly. "But this is nothing. I'll be fine," I add in my firm, "fearless-jock" manner. Kurt buys it and doesn't question me further, probably hoping not to set me off by arguing.

But just to be safe, I sit as close to him as I'm capable. I'm practically imbedded in his side, fixed to his arm and ribcage. I'm not afraid, honest. I just realized that this is a great excuse to play up and use to my advantage. Now I can be as touchy-feely as I want without Kurt thinking of any ulterior motive. He'll think I'm just nervous.

_Ha, I'm so sneaky._

I turn my face into Kurt's neck as the wheel going around, coming up to the highest point again. The average for this ride is three to five go-arounds, depending on how generous the ride giver is. This is the second loop.

Kurt raises a hand to touch my hair, running his nimble fingers through the loose curls as he lays his head on top of mine. "You can be adorable sometimes, Dave," he muses to himself, sounding like he's priding himself on the fact that he isn't always the girl in the relationship.

Fft, whatever. Like I care. I just like being close to Kurt like this. Plus, in this timeline, I'm fully able to. And it's almost better that Kurt isn't aware of how hard I worked to be here with him like this. It puts less pressure on him.

"Shut up. I'm not adorable; that's, like, the worst possible descriptor you can use for someone like me. Bulky and awkward, maybe. Pig-headed, sure. But 'adorable?' Now you're just pulling my leg, Fancy," I reply almost jovially as I smirk and plant a kiss on his throat. He swallows, and as I feel the muscle movement, I know that all truly is forgiven.

I slide a hand from his waist onto his thigh and stroke my thumb downward. He squirms in my grasp.

"Dave, don't," he sputters. "People can see us."

"No one's paying attention to one bubble on the Ferris wheel. 'Sides, I'm not doing anything. Nothing on purpose anyway," I lie, and to cover it up I move my hand back to his waist. He doesn't complain further.

The ride ends shortly afterward, three being the marker for this one, it seems. As Kurt and I get off the ride, he drags me over to the Tilt-A-Whirl, insisting that we get all of the rides done now while the lines are short and the lights are on everywhere, and that we spend the remainder of our time on games so that we have to carry around our prizes for the least amount of time.

It makes sense to me, so I go with it.

We go on all the rides, and Kurt gets sick on one after he decides to get some ice cream beforehand. Silly boy; he's the one who told me not to eat before going on rides, and yet here he is, forgetting his own rules and indulging. But it's an incredible thing to see; Kurt's a lot more like a regular teen when he drops his holier-than-thou façade and lets loose a little, caving in to his childish urges, the ones that all teenagers possess.

We move on to the games after the vomiting disaster on the last ride. I choose a shooting game with a fake rifle and some plywood ducks. I hit the bull's-eye once, and get the two closest outer rings the other five of the allotted six times. This wins me a lesser prize, and I let Kurt pick it out. He selects a purple giraffe this time, and for a moment, I'm reminded of my purple llama dream from a while back, in another timeline.

As we're laughing and walking back to my car at roughly ten o'clock, four hours since we arrived, and about two since the sun set in the late summer horizon. Back at my dad's car, Kurt stops me with a touch to my forearm. He drops his prize in through my cracked car window. He then peers up at me, a considering expression on his face.

I cock my head at him. "Yeah? Something up? You have this weird look on your face."

He studies me some more before wrapping his arms around my neck and yanking me downward. I don't protest in the slightest. He kisses me with all he's got, and I hum into the kiss with keen interest as he works my mouth against his. He's not at all being careful with me, and I like it. He tugs mildly on my hair with one hand as the other zips up and down my back, pressing me closer with each upward stroke.

"Kurt," I mumble into his mouth as I struggle to breathe. "What – what's this, all of a – a sudden?" I say choppily around the kisses he keeps throwing my way.

Breaking the kiss with a thin line of saliva temporarily connecting our bottom lips, Kurt clues me in on his reasoning. "I had a good time. There was that scare in the beginning-middle, there, but everything's fine now. I just… I wanted you to know. And I wanted to thank you, too, I suppose. What, did I come on too strong just now?" he muses, looking like he doesn't care either way on how I respond.

I chuckle breathlessly and shake my head. "No, not too strong. Just unexpected, that's all. And, in that case, I guess… you're welcome? I don't know. I shouldn't let anything like that get to me again. I don't want to fuck this up." I already have once, when I was still in the hospital, so I don't want to do it again.

"Fair enough," Kurt concurs nonchalantly. He shrugs, and then a teeny smiles graces his lips. "So, shall we return home?"

"Right. Yeah, sure," I say, somehow forgetting myself for a moment there. Kurt's too distracting for his own good.

I climb into the borrowed car, and Kurt immediately turns on the stereo full blast.

We sing Queen – all the classics, all my favorites and his – all the way back to his house, whereat I drop him off with both his stuffed animals (one needing a good washing) and one last goodnight kiss from me.

"I'll see you again soon, David," he tells me softly. "I have a college trip to go on this week – my dad wants me to check out all my options, even though I plan on doing what we discussed – but after that, we can have another date. Okay?"

I grin broadly. "Okay. Goodnight, Kurt. I love you."

He gives me this weird smile; crooked, dimpled, overjoyed. It takes him not a minute to reply surely, "I love you, too."

And then I'm driving away, trying my hardest not to peer back at his house as I fly down the street back to my own home.


	18. Chapter 18

_Sometimes,_

_I think it's cruel_

_How Fate or Destiny or life in general_

_Likes to up and change on me_

_Without my consent_

_Without my approval_

_Without so much as a, "Sorry about this,"_

_Or a, "It'll get better, I promise,"_

_Or even a, "Say goodbye while you still can."_

_Instead, it's all trial and tribulation_

_With no verdict or resolution._

_I get those happy moments_

_And then, just like that –_

_Right when I'm beginning to feel comfortable –_

_It's all yanked out from underneath me_

_Like a rug on a slippery wood floor._

_…When will it end?_

.o0o.

"This is the school in California that you're visiting?" I say as I flip through a booklet that displays all of the aspects of this arts and fashion school. It's all about interior decorating, fashion designing and marketing, and the computer graphic and traditional art for blueprinting such things. It's probably the gayest school for a guy to go to. And that's why it suits Kurt perfectly.

"Yes. Isn't the campus beautiful? And look at all the programs! But it's beyond expensive. I would have to sell a lung, a kidney, and a lobe of my liver just for two classes. And my dad would have to sell the house for a year's worth of classes. But, they did offer me a scholarship – the merit kind that renews each year depending on grades and attendance – and that scholarship will pay for at least half of the grand total of years. But still, I'd rather do our community college plan. It's cheaper, quicker, closer to home and you, and I'll be getting my education either way."

He packs the last of his clothes into his bag, and I have to help him sit on the luggage to zip it fully closed. Standing up and helping him stand, I survey the room.

"Your bedroom is a lot emptier when half your clothes and all your skin- and hair-care products are packed away," I muse with a glimmer of a smile. "And you'll only be gone a week, right?"

"Yeah. Two or three of those days are just for rest and sightseeing. But the other four or five days are for touring the school, doing activities with other possible incoming freshman, and getting a taste of campus life. It'll be fun for sure," Kurt remarks cheerfully, and he moves around his massive suitcase to fall into my arms. I catch him, bracing a foot behind me, and yank him up to be face-to-face with me. "Try not to miss me too fiercely."

"Come on, Fancy. Who would ever miss you?" I joke, but there's a bitter truth behind it: each time he went to Dalton in the past, everybody missed him. Well, all the Glee kids, anyway. And me. And one or two girls who looked up to him for his fashion sense. And one girl I knew who blatantly stated how much she had a crush on him even though she knew he was gay and out of her league.

"Too bad, because I'm definitely going to miss you, Dave. Guess David The Panda will have to suffice," he adds, and gestures to the suitcase.

I raise a brow at him and smile. "You're bringing that cheap carnival prize with you?"

"It's at least Six Flags quality, not nearly as cheap as half the others. And besides, it reminds me of you. So I'm bringing it with me to keep me company," Kurt replies matter-of-factly. "I even slept with it next to me the past few consecutive nights. I regret nothing."

I chuckle at this, and let my hands slide down from his hips to his ass. I rarely get the chance, but I love the feeling of those perfect, tight buns under my hands. I ignore the way my ears burn and instead focus on hauling him up the remaining couple inches in height difference to connect or lips.

His hands glide up my back and bend at the elbow to grip my shoulders nearly backwards. He makes our chests align, and I sigh into the kiss. Everything about him fits me. We balance out one another in a rough, yet compassionate, way. It's hard to believe sometimes that there was a point where we weren't like this.

There's a suddenly knock on Kurt's open door. My hands immediately zoom up to Kurt's mid-back and we break apart at the mouth.

"I saw that," Burt Hummel smirks oddly, and he shakes his head. "Wish I hadn't, but I had. How incredibly awkward."

"You can say that again," I mumble under my breath as I remove my arms from around Kurt completely and opt to run a hand through my hair instead. I shove both into my jeans pockets and clear my throat. "Um. So. Hi, Mr. Hummel."

"Hi, David. I don't need to give you the old, 'keep your hands to yourself' speech, do I?" he remarks, but the middle-aged man, while pointedly frowning at me, seems to be smiling on the inside.

"Uh, no, Sir. I'll do that on my own. I was just… helping Kurt pack."

"I can see that. You did a fine job," he replies, and meanwhile, Kurt is just looking between the two of us – his father and his boyfriend – as if conflicted as to what to do, and who to side with. Family or lover? Haha, age-old question.

I make it easy for him by stepping closer to his bedroom door. "I was actually just leaving, now that we're done. Kurt has a plan e to catch tomorrow, and it's almost dinnertime at my house. So…"

Mr. Hummel nods in appreciation. Like any father, he isn't fond of seeing his child-now-a-young-adult leave for college or make out with their boyfriend/girlfriend. And Kurt is currently doing both. Poor Burt.

I mosey on past the man of the house and make a face as I do so, the sort of face you make when you're trying to avoid potential confrontation, or are simply displaying unease.

Kurt follows me, probably trying to see me off at the door.

Leaning forward, I give him a quick kiss. "I won't see you tomorrow since you flight is so early, but you better call me the second you land. I don't even care what time it'll be. Is California ahead or behind us?"

"Behind by about two or so hours, I believe," Kurt shrugs. He gives me another kiss, this time on the cheek. "But I'll call you. Even if I disturb your sleep. So you better pick up."

"Why wouldn't I?" I laugh, and with one lingering touch to his face with my fingertips, I leave his house and go out to my truck. When I glance back, Kurt's leaning against the doorframe, the front door wide open. He waves at me.

And I know for sure right there that he loves me as much as I love him.

.o0o.

It's an unholy hour in the morning when my cell phone goes off in my hand. Yeah, admittedly, I had slept with the damn thing. I didn't want to make the ringer too loud because of my parents, but if I set it to vibrate and left it on my end table, it wouldn't have made enough noise to wake me. I'm a pretty deep sleeper most nights. Hence sleeping with it.

"Auh, whaah? Hullo?" I grunt sleepily, my voice as clouded as my vision. My voice is all a little gravely from lack of water in recent hours. "Kurt?"

"Of course it's me," Kurt says, bright-eyed and completely awake and normal in comparison.

"Uh-huh. Hi," I say, rubbing my face, trying to wake up more. I force myself into sitting position, and a yawn escapes me. "You landed?"

"Yeah, just now. I'm at the airport," he answers, and it's here that I notice all of the background noise. "It's utter mayhem here. California is beautiful, though. At least, as much as I can see of it in the darkness of the early morning. I left at six and got here around the same time. How does that even work?"

"Humph. Time zones and flight: two modern marvels that make time travel possible," I shrug, my voice still hoarse but getting less grungy-sounding. I chuckle curtly at myself about time travel. If only this Kurt knew… But as far as I can tell, his first jump happened when he was older than this. Much older.

Kurt laughs at this, and I hear some shuffling and the sound of voices. "Oh, gotta go. Things need to be done, and a taxi needs to be hailed. I'll call you again when I'm at my hotel, okay? After I call my dad, of course."

"Yeah, okay. Be cautious, Kurt; traveling alone like you are, adult or not…" I mumble, and I hear a distracted reassurance on the other end of the line.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, of course I will be. No worries. I was made for this sort of thing," he says confidently. "Love you. Bye."

"Bye. I love you, too," I answer, but he doesn't catch the last four words. He hung up after 'bye.'

I slump backward on my bed as my phone's light blinks out. I stare at the ceiling for a while longer. Then, slowly, I drift off to sleep again.

.o0o.

My phone chimes when I'm up and about in my kitchen, assembling myself some breakfast. I dig it out of the pocket of the jeans I wore yesterday and threw on for today. When I raise it to my ear, I already know who it is. "Hey, Kurt. At the hotel now?"

"Yes! It's so lovely here. The sun's up, everything is bright and amazing. The hotel is a little cheap, it's true, but it's still nicer than some of Lima's. And oh, Dave… I can see the _ocean._ And _smell_ it. I wish you could've come with me. And guess what? My cab driver had a gay pride flag sticker in his cab, up by the rearview mirror! When I asked him about it, he said that he's gay and has been with the same lover for ten years. Isn't that sweet?"

"Completely," I agree with a smile. I hope that can be us: living our lives as we please, and together. I'm a sap that way. I take a bite of cream of wheat and ask, "So, is today a tour day or a sightseeing day?"

"A relaxation day, actually. I plan on going down to the hotel pool or the beach for a nice soak and swim. Tomorrow the college stuff begins, and then I have about two full days afterward of just… fun," Kurt answers happily. "I really need to move here, David. I love it so much already, and I've only been here for a little over an hour!"

"I'm happy for you, Kurt," I say softly. "Are you sure you don't want to attend school there? I can come with you and go to a junior college there, or get a job and build up residency before going to college. I dunno. We could get an apartment together or something. I don't want you stuck in Lima because of me. If you want to go there, I'll follow you."

"I like that plan much better than, 'Go on without me, Kurt,' like you pulled at the hospital a few weeks ago," he retorts sassily, but I can hear the smile in his voice. "Anyway, I'll mull that option over. I might hold you to it."

I smile. "I wouldn't mind. I might even prefer it, if Cali's as awesome as you say it is. Plus, who wants to be a Lima Loser forever? Not me."

"Not me, either," Kurt agrees, and I can imagine him shuddering with detestation at the thought of being trapped. "My dad's stuck there, and I'll visit him all the time, but I can't do it."

"Right? It's not worth it," I agree, leaning back in my chair and finishing off the rest of my breakfast.

"Mm-hmm. Hey, look, I'm going to go shower off the jetlag before I hop in the pool. I'll call you again some other time, okay?"

"Sure. Bye, Kurt."

"Bye!"

I toss my phone onto the table and take care of my dishes. I'm glad things are going well for him. And for the pair of us in general. Still, each time things go well like this, there's always that nagging voice in the back of my head that's waiting for shit to get fucked up again. In front of it, though, is a huge swell of hope that this is the last time. There really only are three timelines, it feels like: the original/first, the jump I'm on now, and the one where I began in freshman year.

It's like _Inception;_ except the difference is, instead of being comprised of multiple dreams, my life is multiple realities. A life within a life within a life. And each one requires a shocking jump – pain of death or actual death – to get back to another life. It's all layers, intricate and delicate, and it's what I have to go through to get to my goal. In this case, my goal is righting my wrongs against the people I care about, and winding up with the person who matters most to me.

I've already visited some of these once or twice over, and they all seem to overlap in some way or another, so…

So this should be it. I should be done. I can now live my life again, attending college with Kurt and building a life with him. A solid one.

Sounds about right. And I love how it sounds.

.o0o.

Kurt calls me each and every day, and the amount of calls vary per day, depending on which events happen. It's a good thing he recently added me to his top five or whatever, because it enables our calls cell to cell to be free. Otherwise his bill would be jacked up pretty high right now.

A couple times when Kurt couldn't talk, he texted me. Like while on his tours. I would get little messages like, _'My tour guide is hot,'_ or, _'This sushi is so fresh and perfect!'_ and even, _'I can't help thinking about you. You'd love this.'_

I respond to each and every one, making remarks like, _'Are you trying to make me jealous, Fancy?'_ or, _'Keep your raw fish, dude. I'll stick with cooked chicken,'_ and even, _'I always think about you.'_

You know, the usual cheesy-flirty-teasing texts couples send each other.

One in particular comes the night before Kurt's scheduled return flight.

_'Dave… I need you. –Kurt.'_

I feel my face heat up instantly. _'Um, in what way, babe? 'Cause I can't cross states, you know. You'll have to wait until you get back. –Dave.'_

_'No, Dave. I really can't wait. Call me? It's been too long without you. You know that phrase, "Distance makes the heart grow fonder?" Apparently, they left raging hormones out of the equation. It makes the body grow lustful, too. – Kurt.'_

"…Oh." I mumble, and I instantly dial his number. Ashamedly a tad breathless, I say softly, "Kurt, just what are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking about how there are all these hot guys everywhere, and some of them are gay, and one or two of them have hit on me, but I couldn't think of anyone but you. Don't make me sound desperate, Dave. I just needed –" and he cuts himself off, most likely deciding that nothing he was about to say was going to sound anything but desperate.

I inhale shakily. What does he want from me? _Phone sex?_ That's plain weird. And hot. And _weird._

I clear my throat. "Come on, Kurt. It's no big deal. You'll be home again soon enough, and I'll be right here waiting for you. I know you're a little, uh, distracted –"

"Don't be a wuss, Dave. You know that 'horny' is the proper term here," he retorts impishly.

A strangled noise dares to escape my throat. I clear it again and shift on my bed. It's about eleven at night here. What is it there, then? Eight? Nine, rather? I don't know. Late, I guess. "Uh, Kurt. I don't know what you want from me."

"Just your voice. Keep talking, please. Tell me anything. I feel a bit…" he breathes.

I nod stiffly. "Lonely; I know. I feel it, too."

"Yeah, lonely. I miss you," Kurt murmurs, and he sounds a little breathless. "I… I miss your eyes, looking up into them. I-I miss feeling your warmth around me, feeling your lips on mine, your hands –" He makes a noise, and I don't want to think what he might be doing. I pray that he's just emotional and crying. But judging by the earlier portion of the conversation, he's not. Not by a long shot. I shift again, trying to ignore what's stirring south the boarder.

"Kurt…" I whisper, and he makes another noise. "I miss you, too. Do you have any idea how much I love your smooth, pale skin? It kills me not to suck on it and make it flawed. I know you'd hate that, though. You'd have to hide the hickey with makeup. But I… I _crave_ you, Kurt."

He's panting now, and I know what he's getting up to. It aches not to follow suit. I hear him sputter, "I want… to feel you, David. M-memorize your body."

I flat-out moan, because just the thought of his hands all over me is a little fantasy I have in my head. I have others, ones I will probably never share with him; ones where he takes control, since I'm more of a coward than he is, and he's more confident than I am. But I do crave it. I love him so much, and I want all of him that I can get. It's human nature, I guess.

It's a short period of time in which I simply murmur things to him through the phone, saying his name, telling him how much I want him, but I don't go into detail. But it's enough. I hear his breathing hitch and he lets out a low sigh that sounds like my name. I let him catch his breath and calm his heart again before I speak.

"Well, that's a first," I say, trying to not be half as embarrassed as I know I look. I bet my face is as red as a fire truck, despite the tightness in my pajama pants.

"You're a lot of those for me," Kurt replies at last. "First kiss. First boyfriend. First love. First person I've thought about in specific when I've masturbated. Case in point: this."

I wince. "Please don't be so blunt, Kurt."

"What? You're the sort of person who beats it around the bush, evading what's going on. I state things the way they are." He says, and I hear shuffling, most likely the sound of him cleaning himself off. I feel my hips jerk at the thought. Dammit, I need to think of something else. Uh… vaginas. God-awful B-rated horror films. World War II…?

"S-still, Kurt. It doesn't help. Y'know _. At all_ ," I growl, and Kurt chuckles breathlessly in my ear. I wish he were here. I can't take not having him pressed up against me right now. Fucking hormones. I hate them.

"Sorry, baby," Kurt answers with false sweetness. "I've changed a little over the past year or so that you've been gone. Now I simply don't care about anything except, maybe, my looks. I'm vain that way. But not minding what I say often causes all sorts of problems. _Like the one I assume is in your boxers as we speak,"_ he purrs in a lower voice I barely recognize but sounds all too alluring, and I want to smack him.

"Dammit, Hummel, I'm going to hang up the phone if you don't shut the fuck up," I hiss, because now I have to resort to palming my crotch over my clothes. My breath catches, and I have to bit my lip to keep any other noticeable reactions from slipping out.

"All right, all right, I'll leave you alone. I've pestered you enough and probably made you hot and bothered. But know that I really don't mind; it's nice to know that I'm the person who can do this to you. You should feel comforted by the fact that you do the same to me," Kurt informs me, and he says it so casually that once again the urge to hit him comes to mind, even though I know I would never lay a hand on him like that. But oh, I would mind _only_ laying my hands on him…

Stop it, Dave, stop it! Fuck!

"Goodbye, Dave. I'll see you some time tomorrow after I land and get into Lima. I'll be a little tired after flying, but at least I'll be closer to you again, right?"

"Right," I mumble, and my lip is raw from nibbling on it. "Bye. Love you."

"I know," he muses, and hangs up the phone.

Shit. Now I really need to fix this… _dilemma._

Fuck you, Kurt.

.o0o.

I receive the call while I'm watching a movie Sunday afternoon. It's King Kong, not the one with Jack Black, but the older one with Jeff Bridges. I'm casually sprawled out on the couch, a half-eaten bowl of popcorn nearby, and a can of soda in my hand.

I pause the movie, get up, and pick up the phone. I think nothing of it as I click "talk" and press the phone to my ear. "Karofsky residence," I answer, since I don't recognize the cell phone number.

"Karofsky? It's Finn," Hudson replies, and I feel myself grow sick instantly. He's crying. Why would he call me when he's a broken mess like this? It doesn't add up.

"Finn, dude, are you okay?" I ask, sounding extremely suspicious and worried and shaken up. "Hey, man, is everything all right?"

"No! No, it's really n-not. Karofsky. Dave. You need to turn on the news. My dad told me that you need to see it for yourself. He said – s-said you wouldn't believe me I-if I told you," Finn chokes, and he suddenly hangs up, even without telling me the news station.

That's a bad sign. If I only need to know to check the news, then that means it's on every station right now.

I stop the DVD and change the channel box to regular cable from the DVD player. I flip the channels quickly, my heart speeding up.

The news comes on, quiet compared to the movie I was watching. I turn up the volume, lick my suddenly dry lips, and slowly stumble backward onto the couch as I stare at the destruction on the screen.

It's the picture of a burning airport in California. It was bombed by truck, it says on the bottom of the screen. And as soon as its location scrolls across the screen, I'm holding a hand up to my mouth to keep my hurling.

_That's the airport Kurt is supposed to be at._

There's a body count: fifty-two injured, sixty dead. And the other thirty-something at the airport was able to get out alive and mostly untouched.

There's a list of names of the identified bodies, their IDs from their wallets and purses displayed on the screen.

I see it before I react. I see it, and shock overcomes me, cold and dreadful and numbing.

Kurt's name and photo show on the screen.

The numb wash of shock starts to spark and tingle like a sparkler running down the quick to scorch my fingers. It's more painful than when the numbness of a limb falling asleep wears off and the pins and needles begin. It's that feeling time a hundred.

I can't take it anymore. I rush to the bathroom and vomit into the toilet, popcorn and soda burning like all hell when they come up the wrong way, leaking from my nose and throat simultaneously.

I cough, and the tears come. I break down like I had when I was drunk, except this is different. This is sharp, like the jagged blade of a knife slashing at my heart, jutting out of my chest, slicing deeply into my gut. I dry-heave a couple times before I collapse on the cold tile floor.

My father comes rushing into the bathroom. "David! David, I saw the news; are you all right?"

I can't even respond. I'd love to be sarcastic and spit back something along the lines of, "Fuck no, do I look all right?" or, "How would you feel if you found out that mom died, huh?"

But I can't do it. I'm physically unable to speak.

I'm choking and weeping uncontrollably. My Dad stoops down and wipes my mouth for me with some tissue paper, and then helps me to my feet to guide me to my bedroom. I can barely walk. Everything that is pouring from me is grief and pain and emptiness, as if something reached inside me and tore out a piece of my heart. The piece that completed me.

I crumble in my father's arms, feeling small and insignificant like a child. He sets me down on my bed, but I don't let him go. I can't. I feel like I need something – anything – to fill that gaping hole in my chest cavity. I need something to make me forget that Kurt's dead.

I need something to erase the image of his boring ID photo, washed out and pixilated from stretching it onto the screen. I need to throw from my mind the notion that I will never feel Kurt under my hands again; not his heartbeat, not his hair, not his skin, not his weird clothes. None of it. I'll never see his eyes again. Never hear his voice again. None of it. It's all gone.

_He's_ gone.

I try to say something to my dad, but the words come out choppy, sloppy, and impossible to distinguish from groans of pain and gasps and sobs. My father wraps his arms around my shoulders and rocks me back and forth as calmly as he's able.

This can't be real. Is this happening? It is, isn't it? Kurt's gone…

I turn my face away from him and tear myself form his body. Unexplainable rage zaps through me, and I thrash on my bed, kicking the mattress, punching the wall, and banging my fists against the floor as I fall and sink to it, my knees giving out.

"David, David! Stop it! You're acting like a toddler! You need to calm down. Yes, you just lost someone very dear to you, but for right now, you need to remain calm. This isn't the end of the world."

Yes it is. Yes it fucking _is_! I gave up _everything_ for Kurt! I've redone my life countless times because of Kurt! I worked harder to get him than I have ever worked for anything in my life! I love him more than I love myself, more than I love anything that exists on this planet. He can't die. He can't leave me. I need him. I don't even care that, by needing him, I'm homosexual. I've grown as a person and changed my outlook on sexuality because of him. He's so important to me that I can't even stand it.

"David, I'm going to call your mother. Stay here, all right? Don't do anything foolish."

Foolish. Like what? What could I possibly do? I'm too weak to even move.

My father leaves then, and I'm left to myself. Left with my thoughts.

I'm torn between denial and acceptance. I know it's true; I know he's dead. The proof was right there, right before my eyes. And Finn. Finn was worked up about it, too, so it had to have happened.

But I don't want to believe it.

I want to believe that Kurt is going to come home, say it was all a misunderstanding, and then give me a kiss on the forehead as he calmed me down from crying.

But it's not going to happen, and I know that.

I know it, but it still feels so distant. I crawl inside of myself, curling up in fetal position on my bedroom floor, and that's how my mother finds me ten minutes later.

There are no more tears, only shudders. I am convulsing lightly, the tremors going unnoticed by me, but are felt as they rebound off my mother as she holds me.

She's shushing me like a child, and stroking my hair. "David, sweetie… I can't tell you how to live your life. I can't tell you what would be best. But, baby? You're not like most other people. You can change things. You're special. This doesn't have to be the life you choose the live in."

I blink, my shiver calming as I open my eyes and peer up at her. She looks as grief-stricken as I do.

"Mom… you've jumped a lot, right?"

"Yes."

"So… you know… You know, right? Pieces of the future and o-other realities?"

"Yes, Davey."

"T-tell me… Mom… Tell me if you've met Kurt. If you know anything about him… and me," I murmur, my voice thin, my throat tight and sore.

"Kurt's a jumper like you and I," she whispers. "And in every other reality, he lives. Which means in this one, he died to get to another. He jumped, Dave. You forgot that in your pain, I know, but you have to remember that he's waiting for you sometime else. He's with you even now, I bet. A different you, but you nonetheless. I've been to that future once; I had to help Kurt with one of his jumps. In total, I think he's only jumped three or four times. He won't jump more than that."

"Were… were he and I together?" I need to know.

"Of course you were, baby. He was my second son. I love him almost as much as you. He's a gentleman, and he makes you so happy and loves you so much that I couldn't help but like him." And she smiles sadly.

I cringe at the pain, because this isn't making me feel better about the present. I swallow the bile threatening to rise again. "Mom," I croak, "What do you think I should d-do?"

"Do what you know will fix things, Dave, even if no one else – even me – might understand. Do what you have to do. I can't stop you if you choose anything, because what you choose, I know it'll be for the best, and what will make you happiest in the end."

Her answer leaves my head reeling, and my entire self utterly exhausted. She senses this, and with some help, gets me into my bed. On my side, I fall asleep effortlessly. A single tear crosses the bridge of my nose and plops onto my pillow beneath my head where I lay, a tearstain there when I wake up in the morning.

.o0o.

Months pass.

They fly Kurt's body to Lima from California. There's a wake and a funeral during the late summer, after all of the technically bullshit is taken care of.

I don't attend.

I can't stand seeing Kurt's lifeless body, fixed up with makeup and dressed up but still pumped full of formaldehyde, his cheeks no longer rosy, his heart no longer pumping, his brain no longer active.

I can't stomach the thought.

I visit his grave in the fall. I go to it almost every week, at least twice. I bring red roses. Once, I torture myself by singing 'A New Hope' by Broken Iris. I talk to his buried body, wishing he could tell me what to do.

Because I've been thinking.

Almost every night before I go to sleep, I think.

And one option keeps arising:

_I can kill myself._

I can force a jump. I can go to a timeline where Kurt is, like my mom said. My mom said that I could choose. She said that it could be something that no one but me will agree with. She implied that I should do whatever I need to… even force a jump… since I'm special. I'm different. Not many people in the world are like she and I. Who knows how many? But it's definitely not everybody, and it seems hereditary.

_I should do it,_ I tell myself. _I should get it over with. I should just end the suffering, end the emptiness, and just **die**._

But each time the thought springs to mind, I think of all the people I'll be leaving behind in this reality.

My heartbroken parents. My new friends. My chance to do college correctly and get a better job than working construction.

And I think about how Kurt would be so disappointed in me if I offed myself. If I just threw away my life for him. It's almost as bad as murder in his name, and he said that he didn't want me to do that.

But what else can I do?

I can't keep living like this, like a ghost in a mist, like a shadow of my former self.

I should be in college right now. It's November, days away from being December. Kurt died in July. Time is fucked up, and nothing makes sense to me anymore, but I know this much:

I've hardly noticed the shift in seasons and passing of months.

What the fuck does _that_ say?

I'll tell you what it says: it says that I've given up. That I'm not living anymore. I'm like fucking goddamn Bella when Edward left her. And I fucking hate that fact. I want to die just for being similar to that bitch from that goddamn book.

And now I'm thinking of Kurt again, how we made fun of _Twilight_ and how he discussed how much he liked Jacob.

I can't take this. My thoughts keep going around and around, constantly coming back to Kurt and memories and all of the moments I recall having with him.

Our dates. Our disasters. Our kisses. Our moment on the phone. Specifics of moments I regret and tried to change, like taking his cake topper or threatening his life (which I never meant, never would do, because I could never hurt him like that, but how did he know? I was scary to him, and I scared myself over my infatuation with him).

I keep thinking over and over about how Kurt Hummel is everything to me, and how I would die for him.

_I would die for him._

To protect him…

…Or to be with him.

So that's it, then. I have to do it. I didn't even start college this year like I was supposed to, and as much as my parents and Kurt's friends try to reach out to me, I know that they can't.

So I have to do this myself. I have to force a jump. I need to leave this timeline, and I need to see Kurt again. I need to hear his voice, see his glasz eyes, kiss his lips, and tell him that it's okay, everything's okay, because we're together again, and that he doesn't need to think about what I did to get there, only that I'm there and I'm with him.

Love can transcend time. Love can cheat death. That's what fairy tales and myths and legends and movies and books tell us.

And I believe it.

.o0o.

At my breaking point, I return to the place that I feel was my rebirth: the bridge.

It's the same bridge that my car – of what would be the future – dove off of. It's the bridge where I drunkenly steered off-road and landed in the water.

As I stand atop the ledge and look down, I see the icy water. Ice is good; ice means that I can't fight my way back to the surface for air, since I know that's how my body will respond. It's human nature to fight death, even if you think you welcome it. I need to fake myself out. I need to trick my mind into not resisting. And the only way to do that is to ensure that I have no chances of survival.

Water. Ice. I will drown and freeze. There's no way I can live. And by doing so, I will move on. My consciousness or my soul or whatever travels time will leave this eighteen-year-old body and go someplace else.

Maybe I'll be fifteen again, and I'll get to correct the jump I made when I left the football field, and that way, that Kurt won't have to transfer to Dalton because I reverted to my default self.

Or maybe I'll go to a time I've never seen before, like the future. Deep into the future, where I'm thirty-something years old and Kurt is… my husband? Someone I re-meet at my high school reunion? Something comforting and different akin to that.

I don't care. I honestly don't give two licks, as long as it means I can be with Kurt aga–

"David! What are you doing? My God, you're not going to _dive,_ are you?" a familiar voice shrieks, and I hear the slamming of a car door and the race of sharp shoes on pavement as someone comes toward me.

With a dead expression, I turn and face the person coming toward me.

The last person I expect to see is Blaine-fucking-Anderson.

"Get lost, Slick," I mumble, and start to lean forward on the ledge.

He catches me by the arm and yanks me backward. I topple off the ledge and land on the bridge again.

"Dammit, Blaine! No one asked you to save me!" I yell, and I'm trying not to cry. I can't even look at the bastard; he reminds me of Kurt for reasons I can't express at the moment. "And don't you fucking _dare_ try to give me that, 'suicide is not an option, it gets better' gag of a speech, because that _isn't_ what's going on here, got me? This is nothing like that. This is about me and Kurt, and circumstances you can't wrap your gel-covered head around!"

"Dave," he says softly, as if he knows me, "Look. I know you dislike me with a passion, and I don't blame you. In your eyes, I was a romantic rival. Someone Kurt could rely on. And, admittedly, I did love him. Probably not as strongly as you, but I did. And when I didn't see you at his funeral, I knew something was wrong. But I didn't think you'd do _this._ Have you no courage, man? Can't you _live_?"

"You don't fucking _understand,"_ I hiss, getting to me feet. I scramble up and dust the pebbles from my jeans. Tears well up in my eyes as I shout down at his hobbit height, "I can't live like this! I need to have Kurt again."

"And what, you think you'll jump again? Open your eyes, David! This could be your last life! You could be meant to learn what it's like without Kurt!" he hollers, and it takes a moment for the gears to turn and for my mind to comprehend what he's saying.

"Wait… how do you know about my lives? My time traveling?" I mutter, frowning and stern-faced.

" _Because,_ Karofsky, while I was with Kurt, he told me about how you acted, how you've changed, and as far as I can see, those things don't happen like a light switch, personalities and attitudes flipping on and off. No, I noticed the signs; and I found that they match that of my cousin Joseph," Blaine relays smoothly.

"…Your cousin? He's a jumper?"

"Yes. He always has been, ever since we were little. At first I thought he was telling me a make-believe game, but as we got older, I discovered that he could predict the future to a tee because he lived certain scenes over and over in different ways with the same people. I'm not a time-traveler, but I've seen the affects of one. And you just admitted to me what I've suspected for a while now. That's why I backed off on Kurt; I knew that, being a jumper, you needed him. He's what you were jumping for. But Dave, you can't throw your life away like this because of him. You don't know what the consequences will be!"

I stare at Blaine for an eternity before I come back to myself. I close my slack jaw and lock it tight. Then, slowly, I tell him, "I don't know how you knew I'd be here or what you thought you could do to change my mind, Lady Boy, but it isn't working. I know what I want, and I know what I need to do to get it. I promise Kurt that I would fight to make sure that he and I wind up together. I'm not going to fuck up again. Thanks for your concern," I add with less bitterness, "But I need to do this. And please, if you really care, dude, you won't come in after me."

And with that, I turn and hop onto the ledge. I leap off of it before Blaine has a fraction of a chance to stop me.

I hear my name fall from his lips as I plummet to the ice below. I made sure to aim for a spot that was the weakest, a dark-blue that was barely frosted over. The rest around it was solid, but underneath I know there are currents and plenty of water.

I crash with the sound of cracking ice that I often hear when I drop cubes into a slightly warmer drink. The initial shock of freezing cold doesn't compare to the sopping, soaking, bone-chilling wetness that seeps into my muscles through my suddenly heavy and clingy clothes.

I struggle in the water, whipping about, trying to tread water as my heads fly up to the ice above. The undertow already had me by the waist; it's whisking me away down the river, moving me under the ice to the thicker regions. I gasp and precious air bubbles leave me.

I bet Blaine is calling an ambulance. But the paramedics won't arrive in time.

Tendrils of icy water slip into my throat and pierce my lungs. I choke on the water rushing into my nose, my mouth. I hiccup a few times, chest jerking violently, constricting painfully.

My body is like a stone. Still, stiff, unmoving.

I close my eyes and relax my remaining control of my muscles.

There's the brief moment of floating; drifting between the ages, between time and space, images flashing in my mind as my body drifts in the frozen river. I recall three things:

First, that I love Kurt.

Second, that today is December 15th; I couldn't even make it ten days until Christmas.

And third, that I bet Anderson was only here because he was visiting family from college for the holidays, and he must've happened to stumble across my form on the bridge when he was crossing it in his car.

And these thoughts are trivial. Pointless.

Because with a final twitch of my mouth, I know I must be dead.


	19. Chapter 19

_I can see it. The light, or whatever. I can feel myself disconnected from any physical body. I can look on at everything, nearly omniscient, and I think I see stars and galaxies and cloudy mist. I think I might even hear God or the angels. Something is here with me, taking me by the hand. It leads me somewhere that I'm needed._

_I feel nothing. I trust everything. But thoughts still flicker across my vague consciousness:_

_Kurt…_

_I've loved you, all this time…_

_I hope you can forgive me_

_If committing suicide lands me in Hell_

_And apart from you._

_I only wanted to see you again._

_I only wanted to live my life with you._

_Blaine tried to stop me,_

_And I almost did stop._

_But I'm stubborn._

_You know that._

_I'm also so sorry…_

_For…_

_Everything._

_Kurt._

_Kurt._

_Kurt…_

.o0o.

"Kurt!" I cough out.

I gasp and sputter, water coming up from my lungs as I hack away, chest heaving, my skin wet and cold. I roll over onto my side and shudder uncontrollably as wave after wave of soreness and jerking heartbeats overwhelm me.

I hear someone talking to me, but their voice is skewed from the water in my ears. I shake my head, tap the tab in my ear over the hole, and tilt my head until the water drips out. My eyes burn, and I have to blink a few times blearily. I feel fuzzyheaded and completely out of sorts. My chest feels sore, as if someone had pressed with all of his or her weight onto it.

All I want to do it cry.

If I'm wet and coughing up water; that means I didn't die, doesn't it? This means that Blaine or some paramedic saved me, and I failed even suicide, and I didn't jump, and Kurt is lost and now I have to somehow live without him, and I can't, I just can't, I need to find him, need to get to him, and I need –

"Dave! For the love of Gucci, please respond! I've been calling your name over and over."

My eyes shoot open. Who…? But it can't be who it sounds like. I'm still in the same timeline I tried to leave. So how can –

"Shh, shh. Hey, don't cry; it's all right, Dave. Come on. Here, sit up."

I feel his hands on me, because it's definitely a guy. But I bat them away, my sight doubled and my lungs still attempting to regulate my breathing.

He keeps talking, however. "Look at me, David. I'm right here. I _saved_ you. Your chest might be a little sore from the CPR, though. Sorry about that. – But it was your fault for drinking and driving! What were you thinking? I could have lost you…"

"H-huh? What…?" I mumble, somehow finding my voice. It's scratchy and garbled. I struggle to sit up and look around. Water droplets from my soaked curls land in my eyes. I wipe them away roughly with my cold hand and look at the person kneeling down beside me, the person who keeps talking, the person whose face is barely a foot away.

It's unmistakable. This person is older-looking, and his hair is down from getting wet, but I know instantly who it is.

Kurt Hummel.

My mind nearly short-circuits.

_Kurt –!_

"H-how can this be?" I mumble, and I'm either about to cry or hug him. He's panting, and dripping, and I can see large air bubbles rising to the surface of the river behind him (my car?). "You… you should be dead. I should be dead. What – what year is it?"

"2017, Dave. You're twenty-three years old. Don't you remember anything? Or… unless…" He stares at me, and looks deeply into my eyes. " _Dave._ Did you just come from a jump?"

I nod dumbly. "Y-yeah. I was eighteen. I killed myself."

So… it worked. _It worked!_ I'm in a timeline where Kurt is _alive!_

But this isn't right. If I'm twenty-three again, why does Kurt remember that I'm a jumper? Why is he even here? How come he doesn't hate me? When I was twenty-three, I was working a dead-end construction job and I was getting drunk often, and…

"Eighteen… Oh, shit. I remember that one. That was my first jump. I went from eighteen to twenty-seven, and all these memories rushed to me through dreams. It was… painful. And confusing. And almost too much to bear. But if you came from there, then… what do you remember?" Kurt murmurs, and he looks genuinely frightened.

Meanwhile, I'm just disoriented and flabbergasted and a very, very tired.

"Everything, I think. I mean. I remember all of my jumps. Being this age now, being suddenly sixteen, being fourteen, being eighteen, and everything in between. I remember you. Always you. You in Glee Club with me, you eating ice cream, you at the mall, you in my truck with me, you at the summer festival, you leaving for California…" I shake my head. Every memory, every instance that I've gone through in the past – how many years, now? How do I even count them? How do I even add them to my age? – flashing across my mind and making me dizzy.

Kurt wraps his arms around my neck and draws me close. "Oh _, good._ I was so afraid for a minute there that everything was messed up again. But it's not. It's perfect. This is how it's supposed to be. Of course, this means you won't remember certain things until you dream of them – things like what we've gone through since college – but that's fine by me. As long as I have you here, now. The circle's complete. Everything's _fine_."

"Huh? What are you saying? How can you be so _sure_?" I ask, pulling out of the embrace to stare skeptically at his face. "Kurt, you're confusing me. What's going on?"

Kurt smiles oddly and nudges me with his elbow. "Come on. We'll get some dry clothes as your parents' place and your mom can help me fill in the gaps for you. Oh, but I'm so happy, Dave! I was afraid things weren't going to fix themselves, but they did."

Puzzled beyond all Hell, I scramble to my feet and use my noodle-like, frozen legs to follow him.

We go to his car – a silver Nissan I don't quite recognize, yet somehow feels familiar – and even though we're both soaking wet and the diver's side door is still open, the alarm inside bleeping, from when he must have saw my car go over and rushed out to save me, we get inside. Kurt buckles himself in, I do the same, and he starts driving.

"Kurt… what is going on? I feel like I've been hit over the head with an iron and – and all my memories and thoughts are either scrambled or blanking," I mutter with a groan, my head falling back against the seat.

"I know. I know, Dave. That's how I felt when I jumped to my twenty-seven-year-old body when I died in that bombing incident. It was supposed to be an earthquake that ruined the hotel, but I guess permanency is inconsistent between timelines," Kurt shrugs, and he takes a turn that I know will lead to my house. But that's all I know, because I have no idea what he just said, taking into account what I remember being alcohol in my system during this time.

"Uhg… Kurt? I don't know what –"

He cuts me off with a shake of his head. "It's difficult, I know. But Dave, you have to understand that time is complex. We're not supposed to wrap our minds around it. Just be grateful that it landed you where it did; this is the merged reality, the final reality. I know because this is you coming back to where you started. And that's how it is for me, too."

I try to process his words, except I'm failing, because my head seriously hurts. I think this is the leftover affect of the alcohol and the water that suffocated my system temporarily.

I groan again and close my eyes, head tipping toward the passenger-side window. "Kurt…" I whisper, and he makes a humming noise to indicate that he heard me. "…Thanks for being there. Performing CPR and saving my life, and then somehow getting me out of that car. I owe you."

He smiles ruefully. "No, you don't. The reality ended, but I still remember how you saved Artie's life. He was my friend, and if I had been walking any slower, I would have been in his place. Besides, you committed suicide to get to me, didn't you? I consider us _beyond_ even because of that. Actually," he adds with a frown in his tone, "I don't want to _think_ about that. Suicide was a shitting move, Dave."

I nod dumbly, stealing a glance at him. I'm not used to him being this older-looking. But of course he would be; he's twenty-three, like I currently am. But mentally, who knows where we are in age? I try not to think about it, and simply try to live in the present. Still, it's trippy, after only last seeing his eighteen-year-old self.

We pull into the driveway after a little while, and I'm glad Kurt has leather seats that don't absorb water well, because there's a small puddle in the middle of mine as I get up. Kurt quickly dries the spots in each seat with some paper towels he has in the trunk. And then we're heading toward my front door.

My mother opens it before we have a chance to get to the porch. "Hello, you two," she greets. She isn't smiling. "What happened to you? Do I even _want_ to know?"

"Dave thought it'd be a good idea to go swimming, and he tackled me into the water," Kurt lies with a roll of his eyes and a gesture in my direction with his thumb. "May we come inside and clean ourselves up, Mommy K?"

_Mommy K? What the actual fuck?_

"Of course, Kurtie. Come on in. And David, you should know better! Swimming with clothes on ruins them, and worse yet, did you have to take Kurt down with you?"

"Mm, maybe he doesn't know better, Mommy K. This Dave has been through a lot recently," Kurt answers as he waits in the entryway with me as my mother gets us some towels. He starts stripping, and I have to glance away to avoid temptation. "Don't be shy; this is technically nothing you haven't seen before. But you'll remember that soon enough," he muses lightly, and sends a smirk my way.

"Okay, I am beyond lost," I sigh as I remove my own clothing and wrap the towel around me. "Mom? A little help? The last thing I remember is being eighteen."

"Oh, shit!" my mother exclaims. Everything seems to click into place in her eyes. "So it wasn't a little swim after all, was it? Damn. _Eighteen._ That was a doozy of a year! Your father doesn't remember it, so thank God he's not home to hear it." She moves away for a moment, going into the kitchen to put some water on to boil as she calls out to me, "Oh, but Davey, you shouldn't have done that back then, if suicide is how you got here. I told you I would understand if you did it, but that doesn't mean I approved! It hurt, and I was just glad to meld into a different reality the next morning."

"Is that how it works?" I mumble.

My mother shrugs as she gets out some mugs and drops tea bags into them. "Sometimes. For non-jumpers, anyhow. If you ask any non-jumper from this timeline, they'll remember only your freshman jump, dear. The one in which you and Kurt were friends, grew apart, and then got back together again. So you were a bully for parts of this timeline like most of them remember, but it's nothing too terrible. Plus, it gave you guys opportunity to get together, go to college in California, and then come back here to start a life," my mother explains gently, easily.

My head is swimming. This… is too much.

She hands Kurt and I some clothes (mine, I think), and I hear Kurt thank her in a mutter under his breath. He slips them on tactfully, so that his privates don't show. I'm a little clumsier, what with my drunkenness lingering, although my mother and lover are polite enough to ignore it.

"So… so let me get this straight," I slur vaguely as I stumble over to the couch and try to recover and soak up all of the information that keeps getting thrown my way. It's like have a shitload of college letters come tumbling out of your mailbox at once instead of at intervals. "Kurt, you remember everything. Mom, you do, too. And I'm going to remember everything I missed since my jump because this is a merged reality?"

"Basically," Kurt says with a shrug. "This is the final one. It has to be, because here, I've made all of my jumps and remember all of yours, and I've come back to where I've started, just like you, and just like your mom. This is the reality where Carole gets sick with breast cancer in a few years, and the one where you and I have been together since high school. This is the reality where Blaine is our friend, the Glee Club still meets every New Year's for a reunion party, and no one remembers any deaths of either of ours."

I nod slowly with each brief overview of the situation. A smile makes its way onto my face. "So… so everything's cool. It… it all worked out."

God, I could cry. I've never been so relieved or happy in my life. All my hard work paid off; the verdict and resolution to my trial and tribulation is finally here, in my grasp. I'm _free,_ now. Free of the burden, free of sudden pains and jumps, and I'm free to be myself: a gay jock of a guy in love with Kurt Hummel.

I start shaking, and Kurt gets a worried expression on his face. "Dave, are you all right? Is this happening too fast for you?" He rushes to my side, opting to sit beside me on the couch, his arms falling onto my shoulders.

"Yeah," I laugh hysterically, and I'm actually on the brink of tears. "Yeah, it's way too fast. And too perfect. I'm almost waiting for Ashton Kutcher to leap out and shout, 'You just got punk'd!'" I say, laughing harder.

"Oh, dear. He's unraveling. Kurt, could you please snap him out of it before I slap some sense into him?" my mother's voice says, but I can't see her. I'm too busy hunching in my seat over my knees, hysterical, and trying to breathe. I hear the kettle whistling, and my mom saying these words as she rushes to go pour the hot water for tea.

"David, get yourself together! This isn't a joke, or a lie, or too perfect! We worked like Hell to get here, and now that things are fine, you're falling apart on me? Come on, Dave… Where's that strong man I fell in love with? The guy who could take anything life dished out at him, even when it kept screwing him over?" Kurt says sternly, and it's in that tone he used when he was yelling at me in the locker room a million years ago.

I inhale sharply and let my face fall. I turn and look at him over my shoulder. Leaning back again, I shake my head and rub a temple. My mom comes in just then, handing me a still steeping mug of tea.

"Drink this, sweetie. The hot water will warm you up and the Sleepytime Vanilla will calm you down," she instructs.

I nod curtly and take a sip that burns my tongue. Slowly, I tell the young man besides me, "I… I'm sorry, Kurt. I think I've been through too much. I need some rest. I – I need time to think. Calm down. Get my shit together."

He nods slowly, sympathetically. "Okay. Yeah, I can see that. Drink your tea, and then get some well-deserved sleep, David. The dreams should help you understand anyway, if the déjà vu isn't enough. Plus, you can get rid of that headache I know you must have."

I nod again, imperceptibly this time. I finish off my tea and soon make my way upstairs to my bedroom, which, I notice, is more of a guest bedroom now. I drop onto the bed and submit to sleep almost instantly.

.o0o.

It really had been too much all at once yesterday. It's as though all this information was vomited on me, and like a too-full sponge, I couldn't absorb it.

But after a good eleven hours of sleep in which I dream non-stop of moments in college, of that apartment I wanted (and got) in California, of working job after job at random locations to pay for everything and help keep my student loans at bay, and of making love with Kurt a few times (the first being awkward and clumsy but beautiful), and finally, of getting into a fight with Kurt and drinking it off with Puckerman and the Chang, Cohen-Chang due before going off the bridge in my car on the way back…

Suddenly, everything makes sense.

I wake up, and my head is perfectly lucid. The aftereffects of drowning and being drunk are gone. I can think clearly, and as I come to myself completely and wipe the crust from my eyes, I sit up and notice another body in the bed.

I glance down and off to the side, and there's Kurt, wearing what I assume are my clothes; no, what I know are my clothes, a vague sense of déjà vu reminding me that they're mine. It's like the memories are there, now, in my skull, by some sort of trick of time or other supernatural doing.

I smile lazily and reach out to stroke my fingers down the length of Kurt's jaw. He stirs under my touch, inhaling deeply though his nose. His eyes blink open, scrunch up, and he rubs them with his knuckles. "Morning," he murmurs tiredly.

I grin broader and lean down to kiss his forehead. His skin is lightly oily under my lips, but I don't mind. "Morning, Kurt." Something occurs to me, and I make a face. "My mom let you sleep in here?"

He hums noncommittally. "We're twenty-three, Dave. And your house has limited places to sleep. Thus, your mother figured it was safe to let me sleep with you. Besides, you were so out of it that she knew we wouldn't have sex or anything," he says bluntly, yawning and stretching with a grunt or two afterward. He uncurls himself and lurches upward into sitting position. "Uhg. I never sleep quite as well when you're too tired to hold me," he mumbles, and I almost don't catch it. He throws his legs over the side of the bed and limps for a moment or two until his legs wake up for him. I hear the bathroom door close.

Frowning a little to myself, I realize how normal this feels. As if it were any other morning, and as if it's been like this for a long while. It's a perplexing, conflicting feels, considering what I've been through.

I make my way downstairs to use the other bathroom. I piss, wash my hands, splash water on my face, dab it dry, and meet up with Kurt and my mother in the kitchen.

"Where's Dad?" I ask my maternal figure as she hands Kurt a mug of coffee.

"Business trip. Good thing, too; I don't think he could take your little stunt. How did you save him, by the way?" she asks, turning to Kurt.

Kurt looks down into his cup. "It wasn't easy. I was driving by and I saw a car go off the road. I ran out of my own car and jumped in after it. The glass was already breaking and water was streaming in. I knew I shouldn't have let Dave go drinking with Puck and our other friends; because the second I saw who was inside, I nearly screamed. Good thing I know how to hold my breath from singing; it helped me suppress the scream, hold my breath as I kicked the crack in the glass until it shattered, and get Dave out before I passed out myself."

As soon as he glances up again, I catch sight of his eyes – really blue today, reflecting off of the robin's egg color on the baggy shirt of mine he's wearing – and he looks so pained, so relieved, that I immediately walk over to him and stand behind him at the breakfast bar to drape my arms around his shoulders. I lean my head down and murmur, "Thanks, Kurt. You risked a lot for me, and you and my mom have been really supportive with helping me cope and recover from my most recent time travel. I'm grateful."

"Yeah, well," he says tenderly, lowly, as he reaches up with one hand and rubs my forearm, "Just don't do it again. We've had enough risks in our lives, I think."

"Amen to that!" my mom agrees with a chuckle that sounds less humorous than it should. She moves to the coffee maker and dishes out a mug for me. After handing it over, she slides the sugar and cream my way. "Now then, boys: have any plans? You were both planning on either getting jobs here in Lima or moving again."

"I vote Lima. Everyone we know and love is here, or they always visit here, because not matter how scattered we become we always return to our roots," Kurt remarks affirmatively as he takes a sip of his coffee. "I was thinking of getting Dave a job at my dad's shop while I get one at the high school as a French instructor and Glee Club assistant, since Shuester is still there, leading it."

I peer over at him. "Really? That… sounds like a great idea. I dreamt of you taking French and some teaching classes. But didn't you not finish?"

"No, I didn't, but I will. Figgins isn't too particular about me having my degree just yet. He's letting it slide since I'm an alumnus. Most of our old teachers are still there, and they remember me, even though I left for Dalton for a while." Kurt relays offhandedly as he takes yet another sip. He seems like he has his life under control. But why wouldn't he? He's been through jumps, and he's been waiting for the fully jumped version of me to come along. And Carole isn't sick yet, and everyone is still just fine, and he and I are young and still moldable. Our lives will get messy like all do, but the worst is behind us. I completely understand and respect his outlook.

But I still feel a little dislodged and insecure about all of this. It's as though I'm torn between feeling too old and too young for this current situation.

And there's still something that bothers me.

"Mom? In the timeline or reality or whatever that I just came from, did you send Blaine after me to stop me from diving?" I ponder aloud and with a frown.

My mother looks guilty and stares down at her mug, her fingers playing a deaf melody around the rim. "Um… yes. Fellow jumper or not, honey, no mother wants to see her son die. And I knew Blaine was in town, and I knew you might try something like drowning since that's how you jumped in the first place, and I know that he would be your friend in another time and place, so I had to ask him to do it. He didn't understand at first, but when he asked me if my son was a jumper, I couldn't lie. And then he agreed to help, which I found odd, but I suppose we all need our reasons to do outrageous things."

"That's a good enough answer for me, I guess," I shrug, even though I disagree with her methods and would like a little more support for her answer. Still, I know it's the best one I'm going to receive, so I might as well drop it.

I turn to Kurt survey him with my eyes. He lifts his own to meet my gaze, and I wonder what he's thinking. I bet he's wondering what I'm thinking, too.

"This is insane," I murmur, and I catch my mother rolling her eyes and nodding fervently at the statement. She mutters something as well, but I can't hear it specifically; I only see her lips move in my peripherals.

Kurt agrees with my mother and I. "It definitely is. But that's our lives in a nutshell, Dave: insane. It's been a Hellish roller coaster of emotions and events; it's been a violent game of will-I-or-won't-I, and all around it's been a battle of give-and-take. But that's what makes living so worthwhile."

"You're beginning to sound like my old English teachers, going on and on about 'metaphors for life' and 'the journeys we must take,' and all that bullshit," I grumble half into my mug as I take a big gulp of the burning liquid.

"It isn't bullshit; it's real," Kurt assures me firmly, twisting on his stool to grip my limp hand tightly. I squeeze back, my other hand instinctively gripping my mug's handle tighter. "It's real, and it's all over, and you can relax and do things normally, now. Okay? I'm sure of it. I'm as sure as I am in love with you that this is the end that will lead into our brightest beginning."

And he looks so earnest, so determined, that I can't argue. I don't _want_ to argue. I believe him, I truly do.

I melt under his gaze and offer a smile. "Okay, Kurt. Okay. I trust your judgment. It sounds legit anyway, so who am I to complain?"

"You boys are so cute," my mom cuts in right as I'm setting my mug down and moving in for a kiss. Shit, I almost forgot she was there!

" _Mooom_ ," I groan, feeling like a teenager again. She simply laughs and waves a hand.

"I'll be going, now. I love you both."

"Love you, Ma. Now scram," I say, shooing her. She scurries off, smirking knowingly the entire way. "Where were we?" I ask, turning back to Kurt.

He's grinning like the Cheshire cat. "I don't know. I think you or I was about to prove the realness of the situation by kissing the other."

"Oh, right. Can't believe I let that slip my mind," I return seductively, and I swoop down and steal a kiss as soon as Kurt closes his eyes, waiting for it. He cranes his neck upward to meet me, and with those months of not having him at all, it feels like something in my soul has been replenished. I feel whole again, just for being able to have this feel again, the feeling that started it all (and yes, I am thinking of that damn locker room again), the sensation I used to regret and crave: touching my lips to his fluffy, supple ones.

"I love you, Dave Karofsky. I didn't get the chance to tell you so last time, before I died. I only said, 'I know,'" Kurt whispers almost heartbreakingly against my lips as we part. I let my eyes peek open just enough to peer down at him from my nose.

"No, Kurt. It doesn't matter. That's behind us now, and I didn't even dwell on that, or think about it at all. I know that you love me. Why else would you sacrifice like I had just to be with me?" I remind him gently, and I touch his face, caressing his cheeks with my thumbs and leaning down to plant feather-light kisses against his jaw.

Kurt whimpers almost inaudibly in my hands, and I can feel the vibration against my chin as I work my way down. He pushes me up, stands with me, and twines are legs together to the point where I have to lean backward against the breakfast bar to remain balanced.

I hold him to me, trying to memorize his frame with my hands. Déjà vu floods over me in grander detail than the dreams gave me; I recall hazily all the times he and I have made out since starting college together a few year back, and I recall how half of them lead to the bedroom.

I gasp, bring brought back to the present as Kurt's mouth attaches itself to my ear. I feel my knees go a little weak as he works his tongue and lets his teeth graze over dampened skin. I shiver and lightly moan his name.

Even if I have the vague memories, this still feels new to me. It's fresher than what I'm supposed to recall, and it feels so right.

"We have forever," Kurt's telling me around his exploring hands under my shirt and his mouth breathing hotly into the fabric or over exposed skin. It's intimate and blissful and I never want him to stop. I grapple as his hips and rear and anything within my reach. He goes on intermittently, "It's a lot – too much, all of it, from every jump – but we're here. We made it. We survived, David. I waited for you. I forgave you. I made mistakes, and so did you, but we did the best we could. And I honestly believe that we can whether through anything together, now."

He's right. If we lasted this long, we can do anything. Deal with anything, because we've already dealt with the thing people fear the most: death, pain of death, and having someone you love forget about you. He's done it, I've done it. It hurt over and over again, each wound fresh and each scar lasting, but it's finally over.

I know it is. I can feel it. I always felt unsure before, but now anymore. I don't feel the axe dangling above my head, about to fall and decapitate me; I don't see the carrot dangling in front of my eyes as I'm a rabbit running on a treadmill; all I feel and see is Kurt and this new life I'm finally allowed to have.


	20. Aftermath/Epilogue

_I hate hospitals._

_They seriously are nothing but_

_Bad memories,_

_Sterile smells,_

_Busy people who can barely bother with you because of their patients,_

_And uncomfortable worry all around._

_I can hear the sick,_

_Feel the dying (since I've been there at least two solid times),_

_And I know of the worried._

_I'm one of them._

"Here, let me hold her for a while," I hear Kurt murmuring into my ear. I nod deftly, and pass our four-year-old adopted daughter off to him.

She is Rachel's, technically. When we asked her if, since our other adoption plans kept falling through, she would mind insemination, Rachel said no, she didn't mind. She was overjoyed to have our child, oddly enough. (Well, Kurt's child; I wasn't comfortable impregnating someone with my genes. But Kurt was, and Rachel was fine with it). And it's kinda funny, because she treats the situation like it's a normal thing every time she visits with her own child, Thomas. Thomas and our girl, Melinda, are technically half-siblings, and yet they act like cousins or really good friends. They don't know that Melinda's adopted. They're too young to know.

"Kurt, how are you holding up?" I ask him, touching a hand to his shoulder as he gently, soothingly bounces our sleeping child up and down against his chest. Her little fist is pressed against his collarbone, and her head is resting on his chest. She nuzzles into the fabric of his shirt, mumbling something about "Gramma" Carole.

"I'm about as sturdy as Eeyore's stick house," Kurt whispers, and I can see that his eyes are still puffy and pink from earlier tears. "This is hard for me, Dave. I knew it was coming, but that doesn't make it any easier to handle. Carole's been my mother since I was sixteen. I love her. I already nearly lost my father to a heart attack years ago, and now this, years later? It's so painful."

I nod sympathetically and move my arm around his shoulders, sliding myself closer on the hospital bench until I have him and our daughter in my arms. I kiss his temple and run a hand over her brown hair. She looks like Rachel as a distant glance, but so much like Kurt up close, her nose the same and her eyes the color of Burt's.

"Daddy, don't hurt," Melinda suddenly mumbles, stirring in Kurt's grasp and peering up at us with sleepy, squinty eyes. "Gramma Carole'll be o-tay."

She still talks a bit like a toddler sometimes, usually when she's tired, and it's adorable. I smile softly at her, tapping the cleft of her chin with a fingertip. "That's right, Melly. She's going to be fine. I believe it."

"I belieeb it, too," she slurs, and yawns adorably. "Dad… is boobie cancer really bad?"

"Yes, it is, Melly. But it can be healed sometimes," I answer her, trying to speak down to her level. Kurt looks away. Tears are welling in his eyes again, I just know it. I rub his shoulder and lean my head down to place a kiss on Melinda's cheek. "And I think this time it'll work."

"You think so, Dad?" she whispers. She looks over at Burt, who's still pacing the floor. "'Cause I don't want Gran'pa Burt to be sad. He loves Gramma Carole like you love Daddy, an' he don't want her to be sick."

I nod, tears threatening to fill my eyes, too. I force them back with another smile. "She won't be sick anymore. The medicine has been working, and now all they have to do is give her a surgery to take out all the icky sickness in her chest," I inform my daughter. "It shouldn't take too long, now. I bet the doctor will come out at any minute and tell us that she's okay."

Kurt and I have been through a lot, recently. Carole got diagnosed when we were twenty-seven. We got Melinda, barely eighteen months old, when we were twenty-nine. And now we're thirty-three and trying to keep our life stable. The jumps almost helped, in comparison; not only to get Kurt and I together, but also to teach us hardship to help brace us for our future together. And so far, nothing is as difficult as those jumps. But then again, nothing is quite ever perfectly happy, either. Only the small moments.

"Dad, Daddy?" Melinda says suddenly, looking to me first, and then Kurt. "I need to go potty."

"I'll take her," Kurt sniffs, and I know that he's crying again.

"Are you sure, Kurt? Maybe you should stay in case some news come along," I offer. I'm worried about him. This is essentially his mother; Carole has been his mother for longer than Kurt's birthmother, after all; even if she came to him when he was nearly already grown.

"It'll only be a few minutes," Kurt assures, but his voice is so low and carefully gentle that it frightens me. He sets Melinda on her feet on the floor by momentarily holding her up by her armpits. Once she's standing, Kurt stands himself, and takes her tiny hand and leads her down the corridor to the public restroom of the hospital. They enter the girls' bathroom, like Kurt always does. No mother ever complains when they see him with Melinda in there. They probably can tell by the way he's usually dressed that he's harmless.

I exhale shakily and rub my hands together, raising them to my mouth as I land forward. Across from me, Mercedes is studying my every move.

"Dave," she says carefully, "You told Melly that things were going to be okay, but you weren't really talking to her, were you?"

I shake my head. "No, I wasn't. I was talking to Kurt. He needs to have some faith, 'Cedes. But I don't think he does. I think he's given up even on believing in Carole, because he knows that she's getting older."

Mercedes nods sadly and moves to sit beside me. "I brought him to my church once to give him some faith when his father was ill. But those sorts of things don't work on him. He believes in people, not deities. And he believes in tangible love, not blind faith."

"I wish he would at least try, though. I was raised to be a pray for the people I care about, and even people I don't know but are people who could use the help." I sigh and shake my head. "I don't know. I don't want to force religion on him – that's a losing battle, and a moot one – but I at least want him not to tell me how pointless and impossible God and Heaven and miracles are."

"I understand, Dave," Mercedes soothes, but she can't grasp the full picture and truly understand unless she's heard Kurt's debates with me regarding the time traveling and such. But she lays a hand on my forearm and forces a small smile, and that's enough for me.

I pat her hand and smile minutely back. "Thank you, Mercedes. No wonder you've stayed Kurt's best friend. You both bitchy and diva-ish as Hell sometimes, but you've both grown so much."

Mercedes laughs a little at that, but not unkindly. "Yes, well. Everyone keeps a piece of themselves but always manage to change and grow around that piece."

Kurt and Melinda emerge from the bathroom just then, and Mercedes removes herself from Kurt's spot and returns to her own. Kurt takes a seat, and Melinda sits between us.

"Dad, the soap in there smells like roses," she tells me, grinning. "And Daddy met a nice lady in there who gived me a sucker. She's a _nurse_." And she removes the lollipop from the pocket of her dress – Kurt loves dressing her up nice and pretty, like a China doll – and removes the wrapper to stick it in her mouth. She sucks happily, her childish depth of understanding and her childish attention span limited to: _grandma is sick, but oh look, a piece of candy!_

I envy her for that, though. Sometimes life makes me wish that I could return to that simplistic state of mind where everything is black and white and easily forgotten.

But if I had that, then where would I be now? I prefer to have this complicated, ugly, beautiful, messed-up, lovely way of life instead.

Following these thoughts, the doctor bursts from the doors no one but a trained specialist is permitted through.

"Where is Burt Hummel?" he asks.

Burt turns sharply on his heel from his pacing and races over to the doctor. "How is she? How's my wife?"

"She's doing perfectly well, sir," the doctor – a young man, not much older than I – informs him with a bright smile. "We removed all of the cancerous tissue and were able to preserve most of her breast, to help keep up her confidence. Naturally, she'll have to take a bit more medication to heal, but full recovery is already on the way. She'll live a long and happy life, now. We're just fortunate for have caught her disease so early, and have her taking treatments for the past few years. It made the surgery easier, and that much more of a success."

"Oh, oh… Thank God," Burt whispers, stumbling backward with a hand over his heart and happy tears flowing from his eyes. Finn comes up behind him and stabilizes him – Finn has been a silent rock this entire time over fear for his mother's life – and next to me, Kurt exhales deeply as if he's been holding his breath this entire time. He probably was, to an extent.

I smile and reach past my daughter to yank my partner into an embrace. "Hear that, Kurt? She's going to be fine!"

He trembles in my grasp, crying again, but this time laughing with relief as he does so. He clings to me, and moves one arm to include Melinda in the hug. "Grandma's going to be all right, Melly!"

"Yay!" Melinda cheers softly, and stands on the bench to meet our faces. She gives us a big hug – her thin little arms wrapping around both our shoulders as best she can – and she plants a fishy-lipped kiss on each cheek. "We should get Gramma ice cream to cel'b'ate!"

Mercedes chuckles at that. "I don't think Grandma is going to want ice cream yet, sugar," she says as she comes over to us and scoops Melinda up. "But I think frozen yogurt sounds good. Come on, Auntie 'Cedes will get you some from the cafeteria while the grown-ups talk."

"O-tay, Auntie 'Cedes," Melinda murmurs in reply, smiling. "Can Auntie Rachel and Tommy come, too?"

Rachel glances up from cradling her son in her arms, tears running down her face, and she smiles weakly. "Hmm? …Oh! Of course we will, Melly. Be right there," Rachel mumbles, and sets her son down on the floor as she paces over to Burt, her son's hand in hers. "Burt, I'm so glad things worked out. That was such a scare."

"Thank you, Rachel," Burt whispers hoarsely.

"Mr. Hummel, you may see your wife early if you'd like. She'll still be unconscious, but I think it might do you some good," the doctor offers.

Burt nods in response, and the doctor leads him away. Rachel takes Finn by the hand, and they lead their son down to the cafeteria for that frozen yogurt. I'm secretly so glad that they wound up together again after so many years out of high school.

I turn to Kurt and look at him. His face is blank, unreadable. He's wiping his eyes and breathing shallowly.

"Kurt?" I call softly. "Babe, how are you feeling?"

"Like a tempest," he whispers. "A maelstrom of emotion. I don't think I can take it." He shakes his head, dropping it down into his hand.

I grab his hand and use my other hand to cup his face. I swipe a tear with my thumb. "I can see it in your eyes, babe: lingering fear, new relief, confliction, pain, joy. It's all there." I lean forward, and he presses his eyelids shut, waiting for a kiss. But I place it in a place he doesn't expect: right between his eyes. And then another, on one eyelid; and then yet another on the other. To ease his crying. To absorb some of his turbulent emotions. To remind him how much I care.

Kurt sighs, lips parting, and he seems to relax completely, no longer shaking. When I pull away, there's an airily, distant smile barely touching the corners of his mouth. "Thank you, David," he breathes. He falls forward into my arms, his face burrowing into my shirt. He fists the fabric, mumbling something about ironing it for me again when we get home.

"Don't worry about it," I chuckle softly at him as I rub his back in large circles that cover half of the expanse. I pet his hair with the other hand, and he inhales sharply before sighing at length. "I think somebody needs a frozen yogurt, too."

And he just laughs. "I think you're right."

"Just don't sexually frustrate me while you eat it like you've done in the past, babe," I tease, trying to lift his spirits.

It works. "Oh, I suppose I can try and resist, for Carole's sake. I want to be fully focused when she comes-to and I can talk to her again."

"Works for me," I shrug, smiling. I take his hand and we both venture down a level to the cafeteria to join everyone else.

.o three years later o.

"Happy birthday, Melly! Make a wish!" Blaine laughs as he bounces the seven-year-old on his knee. She giggles and blows out the candles as he stills long enough for her to make her wish. And then everybody is cheering, and Melinda is shaking her head at us.

"Uncle Blaine, you're so weird! You should put me down now," Melinda insists, and with a chuckle, Blaine sets her in the chair and moves out of the way. Kurt cuts a slice of cake, a lavender apron covering his work attire. He's a French teacher at McKinley, just like he said he was going to be. And he's damn good at it, too.

"Here you are, sweetie: first slice, the one with the flower on it. Tell me how it tastes, okay? You know your Dad sucks at baking."

Melinda laughs as she shovels a bite into her mouth. Humming happily, she reminds Kurt, "Nuh-uh, Daddy. You know that Dad is the best baker ever."

"But I'm still the best chef, right, Melly?" Quinn jokes as she leans over Melinda's shoulder and nuzzles her face.

Melinda laughs. "Yeah, Aunt Quinn, I know. You and Uncle Noah are the best cooks ever. Uncle Noah makes the best burgers on the grill."

"And don't you forget it, sweet cheeks," Puck grins, ruffling Melinda's sandy brown hair. Their marriage is still the most surprising to me; Quinn and Puck had such a rough teenage life together, but in their twenties, something clicked, just like how Finn and Rachel's love was rekindled. It's a bizarre twist, especially after how much in love Puck said he was with Lauren. But Lauren would have never settled down with him; she's too feisty and freedom-loving for that.

"Daddy?" Melinda says suddenly, swallowing after a bite and looking up at Kurt.

"What is it, dear?" he replies as he cuts another slice for somebody else. Artie, most likely.

"When do I get my presents?"

Kurt and I chuckle at almost the same time, and half of everyone present chuckles along with us. Tommy nudges Melinda, calling her greedy, and Rachel pats the birthday girl's head.

"Now, now, everyone; it's perfectly natural for the birthday girl to want to be spoiled and loaded with presents," Rachel says in Melly's defense. "So do you know what I suggest? Immediate present opening after we finish eating the cake."

"Sounds good to me!" Melinda smirks in a very Kurt-like way. She giggles and starts wolfing down her dessert. In not time, her slice is gone. With a satisfied groan, she complains of her "tummy being too full," and moves on to the family room where her presents are stacked a mile high.

After much squealing, giggling, thank-you-hugs, tissue and wrapping paper, and many bags, it's finally all over and done with. The children head off to bed; everyone's kids who came or has them – and soon it's just all us parents and friends around the dinner table, playing poker and drinking mildly.

"It's so late," Brittany murmurs as she looks at her cards. She leans over to her lover and whispers, "Sany, is this a winning hand?"

"No, Britt. Try again, chika."

The blonde makes a face, tilting her head. "Oh."

Artie sighs. "Well fuck me, I'm out." And he tosses his cards down with a shrug. "And I ain't even mad. I'm tired, actually. I think Natalie and I are gonna head home. Night, y'all."

Natalie is Artie's current girlfriend. He goes through them quite a bit; he has since Brittany and him broke up. The poor guy can't seem to land a girl that he likes enough to marry. Although this doesn't bother him; Artie prefers living his life a little free, and aside from that, he's a recording artist who travels a little too much for it to matter, anyway.

It doesn't take too much longer until everyone is leaving (except Rachel and Finn, who choose to spend the night), opting to pick up his or her kids tomorrow as planned. Kurt and I stand together and bid each of them goodbye.

I wrap an arm around Kurt's waist. I lean over into his ear as the final guests' car leaves the driveway, and Rachel and Finn say their own goodnights to us. I stand with my arms around Kurt, half-behind him, half-beside him, and I press my mouth to his earlobe, idly kissing it. "Well, that was tiring but fun," I think aloud. I plant more kisses down his neck, and he tips his head in the opposite direction to permit me further access.

"Mm, yeah," he hums in agreement, "We made Mel so happy. And all the adults had fun as well, I believe. Too bad Mom and Dad couldn't be here. But they should be here on her actual birthday in a couple says, so there's that."

I nod vaguely, choosing to continue to cover his throat with wet kisses and small suckles. Kurt melts in my grasp, and even turns to face me and kiss me full on the mouth. I'll never get tired of this, I don't think.

"Too bad there is another couple and so many munchkins in our house tonight, else I'd be making love to you, Dave," Kurt whispers with a sultry voice against my collarbone, his breath hot.

I bite back a moan and tighten my grip around him instead. "Dammit. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, anyway. We should've asked Rachel to host the part at her house so we could slip away."

"You're a naughty man, Dave. You would burden our closest friend with all those six, seven, and eight-year-olds for a whole night while we had romping sex elsewhere?"

"…Hmm, I'm not sure, let me think about it– _yes."_ I reply firmly.

Kurt frowns and playfully smacks me. "Lustful pig," he scolds. But he gives me another kiss nonetheless.

.o five years afterward o.

"Asshole!" Kurt screeches, and slams the front door in my face. I hiss angrily and turn and walk with my hands shoved deeply into my jacket pockets out to my car. There's suddenly the sound of a window opening, and before I can get the car door open, I see Melinda's face up in her bedroom, tears on her face.

"Dad!" she calls out through the screen. She's only twelve. She only recently asked what sex was, and at the same time, asked Kurt and I about our situation and how we got her.

It wound up turning into a huge-ass fight between Kurt and I. I've messed up a ton of times before with the finances and occasionally with something I've taught or tried to teach Melly, but this was a bad one. Ugly. Because I thought she deserved to know and should be old enough to understand – she's in seventh grade, after all – that Rachel is her birth mother, and that Tommy is her half-brother. Kurt disagreed. He wanted to protect her from the painfully intricate situation of a gay couple for a few more years at least, because he's already been getting phone calls for the past few years that involved Mel punching some kid out for bullying her about having two dads.

I glance down at the sidewalk, still fresh with today's earlier snowfall, and then back up at my daughter. "Yes, sweetie?"

"Don't go, Dad. Daddy will calm down soon enough. Please, come back inside. He just needs time, but he'll be okay. I don't care that I know the truth. It doesn't change us; we're still a family," Mel pleads, and she's crying so hard that I want nothing more than to run in, go up the stairs, and enclose her in a comforting hug.

But I can't.

I smile softly at her. "Not this time, Mel-Lindy," I answer, my heart breaking just looking at her. "You don't know Daddy Kurt like I do. He needs more than just a cool off period. He needs to come to me on his own, because if I force an apology or mend or anything, he won't accept it. Don't worry, I'll be back really soon. I'm just going to wait for him to call me. I'll probably see you later tonight, even. Okay? This is just… normal parent-to-parent issue stuff."

She wipes her tears on her sleeve and leans her forearms on the ledge of her window, her face pressing lightly against the black screen. She sighs heavily, and I can see a puff of her breath come out of the screen. "Okay… I trust you, Dad. I love you."

"I love you, too, Mel-Lindy," I reply, and then I pop the door open. I get inside the car with a huff, but I wave briefly to my baby girl before I shut the door again.

Starting the car up, I aim to go to a bookstore or somewhere equally quiet and neutral until Kurt calls me. He always calls me after a fight, and always tells me to leave during it. It's just how we work things out. I don't mind, because he still comes back to me. He always comes back, because he knows that I would do anything for him, and would do anything to keep him, even if it meant removing myself from the picture for a while.

Sure enough, it's an hour before Kurt's calling me, my selected ringtone for him – Hoobastank's old single, 'The Reason' – playing loud and clear.

"Dave?" he croaks, and he sounds regretful and as if he had just stopped crying. "I… I talked to Melly. You were right; it is best that she knows. She told me that she feels better knowing, but that she wouldn't have our family any other way, since this is how she's always known it to be. And… and she told me that she's glad that we were stayed so close to Rachel, because she doesn't feel like she's missing anything. How did we raise such an intuitive twelve-year-old, Dave? God, she's so young. She's budding, but she hasn't even gotten her period yet. How can she be such a mature little woman already?"

He sniffles, probably wiping his nose, and he sounds so astounded and quiet. He's clearly upset, except no longer in a furious way.

As warmly as my voice allows without sounding hurt (because I'm not, honest; I know that Kurt never means to get as riled up as he does sometimes, and I know I've done wrong, so I deserve it), I tell him, "Okay. Okay, babe. I'll be home in a few, then. And as for our daughter… well, I'm sure she gets her amazing maturity from you." I smile. "I love you, Kurt. I do wrong a lot, but I try."

There's a resounding chuckle to break the tension on the other end of the line. "I do wrong, too, David. We're only human. But, as mad as I get… I truly love you."

I smile to myself, glancing down at the sidewalk as I walk out of Barnes and Noble. "I know you do, Fancy. Why else would you stick with me?"

He laughs for real this time. "'Fancy.' Wow. I haven't heard that one in _years."_

"I felt like bringing it back. It was meant as an insult initially, but we both know it was a secret compliment. You _still_ dress and do your hair all fancy."

"Shut up, you dorky man, and come back to Mel and me. We want to play a kiss-and-make-up game of Yahtzee."

I laugh. "Can do, Fancy, can do."

And I hang up the phone, glad another episode is over and I can finally get that happy ending back on track.

.o fifteen years subsequent o.

"Dad! Daddy!" Melinda greets with open arms as she rushes into the house, leaping into my arms.

"Whoa, Mel! Be mindful of your old man's poor knees! God, kiddo, I can't catch you like I used to," I remind her with a hearty laugh. "I'm fifty-one, Mel, and I've worked many an odd-job to keep up with your Daddy's horrible teacher's pay, you know."

"Oh, shut up, Dad. You've always been in tip-top shape and you can't dispute it," my snappy twenty-two-year-old daughter reminds me with a roll of her eyes. Kurt appears behind me, and she immediately grabs on to him next. "Daddy! Oh, Daddy, I missed you the most while I've been away at college. I know I see you every holiday, but I just can't take being away from my best friend." She steps back and gestures to herself. "Like? I just bought these clothes three days ago with some friends during our return trip form New York."

Kurt smiles brightly. "I couldn't have done better myself," he appreciates openly, and receives a peck on the cheek for this comment.

"Hey, what about me? I'm the one who taught you all you know about hockey and football so none of the guys think you're just another ditzy girly-girl," I remark to refresh her memory.

Melinda shakes her head at me, but she's smiling. "Of course, how could I forget? Come here, Dad. Lemme give you a nice sloppy one." And she jokingly rolls her tongue around her lips to poke fun at my habit before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and leaning in to give me a peck on the cheek, too.

"You've been hanging around Aunt Quinn and Aunt Mercedes a lot recently, haven't you?" I say suspiciously as I help her with her luggage.

"Maybe…" she answers with a smirk. "They taught me all the sass I know. And Daddy is the one I can thank for my impeccable vocabulary, obscure references, and overall sarcasm."

"…I gave you none of my traits, didn't I?" I sigh as Kurt chuckles behind a hand in front of us.

"Well, I do tend to get pissed off when I'm hurt by people, and I don't trust easily," Melinda shrugs. "That's you to a tee, Dad. Daddy has told me all _sorts_ of stories about when you two were teenagers."

"Oh, _great_ ," I groan, setting her possessions down in what will be her semi-permanent bedroom until she can get an apartment of her own now that she's out of college. "My past comes back to haunt me once again."

Melinda smiles to herself as she plops down on the bed, her thighs sitting on her hands. "I actually think it's epically romantic that you two started off like enemies but fell in love," she says sincerely. "It's so passionate. I hope I can find something unique like that in any relationship I'm in. I've been too dedicated to my schoolwork for all these years, and now I want someone!"

"That's Rachel acting up in you," Kurt grumbles. "I knew it was a bad idea to donate my sperm to the uterus of a woman who so high-strung and ambitious."

"Aw, come on, don't pick on Aunt Rachel like that! She's fine now. And I think I'm getting better," Melly remarks with a defensive sniff and a tilt upward with her chin. I find it funny that, despite not having my genes in her, she still has a beauty mark very obvious on her face; hers is located off-center from her chin, down on near her jaw. She clicks her tongue. "Speaking of parental figures, I haven't seen your folks in a while, Dad. I miss Mama and Papa K."

"Oh, I miss Mommy K, too!" Kurt says suddenly. "Why did they have to retire to Montana of all places, Dave? Your parents are insane. They're all supportive of us living in Iowa to finally get married, even if we were away from them in Ohio, but then what do they go and do? They move half across the country."

I make a wincing expression and shrug my shoulders. "Hell if I know! I guess my mom just always wanted to live there, but never had the money. And now she does. So she carted my father away and decided to open up some horse ranch. I don't know how she manages, when she's nearly eighty. She has all those younger kids take care of her horses, I guess. She does races or something. She's so weird. And my dad doesn't even care. He just likes seeing her happy."

"…We should move to Texas and start a bull-fighting ranch or something," Melinda jokes with a devious grin.

"…Um, _no_." Kurt retorts instantly. He wrinkles his nose. "Everything about that is _wrong._ The dusty dirt, the horribly tacky clothes, the mess. I know you were kidding, sweetie, but that's an idea that makes Daddy shudder."

"Got cha," Melinda shrugs, and hops down off her bed to pace past us. "I'm thirsty. I'm going to make some iced tea. Want any?"

"I do," I answer. "And I know Kurt would like a glass, too."

"I most definitely would," he agrees, and pretty soon, the three of us are out on the deck, sipping iced tea with lemon, chatting, and generally being the family we were before Melinda went off to college.

Some things never change, and few would I ever want to.

.o in the end o.

I glance over at Kurt's face; like me, he's aged. A lot. But that happened when you're in your seventies.

"Do you ever miss it?" I ask him in my gruff voice that's become so deep with time.

Kurt takes my hand and smiles. "I think I know, but what are you talking about, David?"

"High school. Jumping. You know, the youthful time-travel-y shit," I say with a careless single-shouldered shrug.

Kurt adjusts himself in his chair and shakes his head at me. "Miss it? No way. I could never miss all that stress. Besides, it's what changed us for the good. Gave us a chance to live like this," and he gestures at our grandchildren, still tint tots, running around our home as Melinda and her husband, Oliver (Ollie, as we fondly call him), chase after their kids, trying to get the youngest in particular to put his pants back on. His underwear, too.

I laugh, which evolves into a small cough. "I'll go there with you. I do like this better than only knowing you in high school and then never seeing you again, like I had been about to do with my life before my first jump."

"Precisely," Kurt agrees, smiling, his chapped lips narrowly hiding his dentures.

"Dad!" Mel calls, and I release Kurt's hand to lean forward in my chair.

"Yes, darlin'?" I call back.

She jogs over to me, her slight love-handles from bearing children jiggling a little as her shirt rides up. She tugs it down, still needing to lose the rest of her baby-gained chub, and she bends down. A kiss is felt on my forehead, and then she touches my cheek.

"Thanks, Dad."

I cock my head at her. "For what, dear?"

"For trying so hard for Daddy," she murmurs, and she has this strange look on her face that indicates a deeper meaning, as if she had heard our conversation. But how could she have?

Smiling and winking at me before tossing her hair back and returning to her family, Melinda looks content to me. But I can't help but wonder what she knows, and whom she learned it from.

Blaine suddenly plops down in the chair beside me. "Whew! Those kids really wear me out. I dunno how you two raised one," the former singer muses. He and Artie wound up recording an album together at one point, after Artie made it really big and Blaine had been discovered after being on Broadway. They formed the weirdest but most adorable of friendships over the years.

Kurt grips my hand again and winks at Blaine. "Wasn't easy, let me tell you. But if you're like me and you have the perfect husband to help you out, and you always work through your problems because you always remember your past with the person you love, and who loves your child as much as you do… it makes raising a person very easy to do."

"I'm not quite sure your wording made sense there, Kurt, but I think I get the gist of it. And you're right," Blaine agrees.

I survey the scene before me: my daughter, her husband, their children (my _grand_ children), and how happy they are, and how content Kurt and I are. I look back at our life-long friend and smile. "I think it's truly all thanks to being able to rewrite your mistakes by moving on and keep living. It makes anything bearable, and everything doable."

Blaine stares at me for a lasting moment, taking in my philosophy; both the metaphorical and literal senses of it. He nods solemnly. "Truer words never spoken, David," he agrees with a grin, looking back at the same scene I had just been observing. "Rewriting, with or without time travel… yeah, I can see it. Atonement in life, redemption for sins, that sort of thing. Yeah, it makes sense, and I like it."

The concept itself sounds a little optimistic (similarly, makes it sound less realistic), and a lot idealistic, but I truly believe that it's possible. And I'm not trying to be biased because I'm old and experienced and have transcended time before; no, really, I'm just trying to look at the big picture, see the life lesson that everyone can learn: and that's the fact that you can beat Fate, you can turn the tables on Karma, and Destiny is nothing but a fairytale, because you make up your own path.

.o0 FINITE 0o.


End file.
